Hunter's Crossing
by SignsOfSun
Summary: The Winchesters must find a way to battle a force that only one of them can see.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Hunter's Crossing

Author: Signs Of Sun a.k.a. Raven Highway

Type: Series. Dean, Sam, angst, the supernatural, and a force that has become intertwined with fabric their lives.

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_Hunter's Crossing_

_Chapter 1_

Sapphire. The sky had suddenly been saturated, dyed, the intense gorgeous color. The Impala cresting the steep hill had revealed this sky to Dean's eyes. The distinct hue told of the passing of a perfect summer day into a long cool night. The last tangerine rays of the sun played amongst the tree tops off on the horizon, but the dome of the world displayed outside the windshield stretched out in a cool cloudless blue, over miles of empty tree lined roads and acres of land sprinkled with nice two story homes. The perfect seventy five degree June day had faded into a more tepid evening, one that sparked a piece of Dean's mind to wish he was in the backyard of the house he didn't own, cooking steaks on the grill he had never bought, and kicking back with a beer on the porch he didn't have. The smell of a barbeque wafting into the car never failed to trigger that thought inside his head. It was always fleeting though, something that departed as soon as his defenses recognized the face of the enemy, pointless and unrealistic thoughts. The sadness it inflicted on him only ever lasted a breath and there were things he valued more deeply and they made his heart and mind healed quickly. Because of those more precious things, he could have cared less about the nonexistent house and the grill and the beer on the porch.

The significant pressure of Dean's foot down on the gas pedal and the state of both front windows rolled all the way down to meet the door frames had flooded the car with a refreshing breeze. Although with the crossing of the sunlight beneath the horizon the temperature inside the Impala was beginning to teeter towards chilly. The crisp sensation sinking into the skin of Dean's face and bare forearms instinctively turned his gaze to the passenger side of the car. His brother was slumped there against the door, oblivious to the world. The wind tousled the longer strands of hair on the right side of his head, making them even more wild than those on the left already were completely undisturbed. Dean wrote a mental memo to deliver his younger brother to a good barber, preferably sooner than later. Glancing back to the blacktop in front of the bumper he found himself rethinking that plan though. Somehow that messy mop of dark hair suited his brother. It was unpredictable, almost artistic or expressive, and certainly unique. Dean allowed a faint smile to seep to the surface of his features. He snuck a few more brief peeks back at the sleeping form. The image of that wild hair mixed with the childlike expression on Sammy's relaxed face sealed the change of heart. He wouldn't kidnap his brother and deliver him to a clipper happy barber, Sam wouldn't be Sammy without that head of hair.

The accelerated motion of the Impala rocked Sam's head and right shoulder faintly up against and then slightly away from the doorframe they rested against. Then once again lulled them back. It was not surprising to Dean that his brother, inside his slumber, had not adjusted his position to avoid the motion. He knew the predictable pace of it was strangely comforting, the car in motion had always felt like one of the only safe places left for them, if safe was even a concept that was possible. The steady subtle motion was recognizable even in the haze of sleep. More than likely it was that constant that provided the chance to let their minds go and sleep deeper than they ever did in any hotel room. If that motion was present then you knew you were safely inside the Impala, en route to the next town on the map. Dean prayed that it would never be taken away, the Impala was more than a beautiful classic car or even a gift from his father. It was a beloved trusted haven from so many things; it was the freedom of the open road, it was an escape that had never failed to rescue him, it was a place flooded with the better memories of his life. It held almost everything precious to him, both physical and intangible.

The slight shifting of Sam's head and upper body was accompanied by a soft waking moan. Dean reacted quickly by reaching for the volume control on the radio and turning it lower, but it was too late. Sam's eyelids fluttered and a few beats later Dean's glance away from the road was met with his brother's eyes smiling back at him.

"Mornin'," Sam sloppily offered.

"Evenin'," Dean replied, bringing his attention to his driving.

"Oh," Sam responded in a dishevel groggy tone.

"Sleep _much_?" Dean inquired, drenching the entire depth of his tone in sarcasm. Dean delivered the remark without looking over to the passenger seat. It automatically thrust Sam into being wide awake and ready to toss back whatever big brother threw his way.

"Hey! I wasn't the one sawing down a forest last night," Sam instantly passed back.

"I don't snore."

"Yes, you _do_."

"Dad, never once complained about me snoring. I _don't_ snore." Sam let out a laugh at this, making certain that its volume was easily audible to his brother, then responded.

"He didn't complain because he was busy working his way through a forest of his own, Dean." For a heartbeat Dean's eyes are diverted out the driver's side window as if he had purpose for looking there, but the pouting goes undisguised. Sam recognized it for what it was and licked his lips, gearing up for some words he hadn't organized yet, but Dean's voice came first.

"At least I don't need a glass of warm milk before going nightie nightie-which is disgusting by the way."

"Once, Dean. Once!"

"Even once it's disgusting," Dean stated firmly, faking a shudder at the mere thought.

"Where'd you pull that one from anyways? Some book?" he added.

Sam turned his head away and stared silently out the passenger side window. He could feel Dean glance away from the highway and over at the back of his head, but Sam didn't offer a response. Dean let the verbal nothingness linger on for a handful of seconds as he directed his gaze out over the steering wheel.

"Sam?" he finally insisted, expecting a thorough dose of comeback, but it failed to be supplied. Dean's eyes drifted again from the road and over to the shaggy hair on the back of Sam's head. His eyes remained there for a beat before a very faint "oh" slipped out between Dean's lips as the answer awakened inside his mind. Dean shifted his body more dramatically, uncomfortably, this time and forced out his realization into the air between them.

"Jess."

"Yeah," Sam whispered in reply. His body rapidly tensed up, each muscle from his hands along up his shoulders all the way to his jaw became gripped into tightness. The silence proving too taunt to suffer through Dean resorted to clearing his throat, while preparing the words he was about to speak.

"Look, Sammy, I'm sorry. I…I didn't realize."

"It's okay. I'll forgive you on one condition," Sam offered, twisting left in his seat to face his brother.

"Oh yeah right? How stupid do you think I am? I'm not going to fall for that!" Dean laughed out, grateful for the opening to relieve the pressure building inside his heart, and looked to the passenger side of the car. Instantaneously Sam's expression molded into one of injury, a look so disappointed that Dean had never once been able to react any other way to it, but how he did this time.

"Alright…okay… what?" he conceded softly.

"Admit that you snore."

"I don't snore Sam," came the reply, annoyance unhidden in the faint growl of his voice.

"Then I don't forgive you," Sam mumbled out, roughly crossing my arms over his chest, to add effect.

"What are you two? Grow up Sam."

"You just don't want to admit it."

"Alright fine. If it'll make you happy. I might have snored once. Two times tops. But filling out all those fraudulent credit card apps, husslin' pool, and driving your sorry ass all over creation earns me the right to snore now and again."

"What?" Sam laughed out. There was a style to the reply that suggested that the statement was absurd in some many degrees they couldn't be counted.

"It made sense inside my head," Dean whispered reluctantly.

"Yeah in there I'm sure just about anything could make sense," Sam responded, grinning at him smugly.

"Bitch!"

"Jerk!" was the instinctive snap back. A little half laugh escaped Sam at the routineness of the exchange and Dean let his gaze wander out the driver's side to scan the landscape along the road. The deep sapphire hue of the sky was melting away into a near navy, a shade that extinguished some of the lightness that had touched his heart driving over the miles into that sapphire dome. The hard dark navy meant the arrival of nightfall, the long stretch of darkness before the next dawn that Dean sensed one day he would never come out the other side of. There would be a dawn he would never see. He would be vanished before the first orange rays of the sun's return crept over the horizon, dousing the world in light. There was no doubt in his mind that he would take his last breath inside the depths of night's blackness. He didn't know how he knew this, and didn't even try to, he simply knew it as fact. Time was wasted dissecting facts. He would cling fiercely to life as long as he could but when the moment came it would be somewhere out there in the dark. Everyone passed eventually, but Dean's time would most certainly in the night.

"So how long was I asleep anyway?" Sam's voice broke in through Dean's mental murkiness.

"Let's put it this way. We're in a different state now."

"We are? Which one?"

"Vermont."

"Wait a minute I thought we were headed for Pennsylvania."

"We were. Now we're not. If you didn't need so damn much beauty sleep, unlike myself of course, you would have known that."

"Shut up!" Sam simply stated then continued on

"Where are we headed?" he added.

"Once again I take Vermont for $200, Sammy."

"No, Dean, where specifically?"

"Cranky, cranky. Hunter's Crossing."

"Never heard of it."

"Tell me about it. It took me ten minutes to find on the map. They should change the name to _Really Freakin' Hard To Find_."

"Thank goodness for small favors," Sam stated under his breath. Dean hadn't quite caught all of the words, but had glanced over just in time to catch the smirk come and go on his brother's face.

"What?" he griped insistently.

"I said thank goodness you're not in charge of naming towns. Because, well, I gotta tell ya bro you'd suck at it."

"Hey! My ideas for towns would be very cool!"

"Oh yeah? Like what?" Sam replied, challenge and amusement in his voice. A long span of seconds strung together while the only voice inside the Impala was the one emanating from the speakers.

"Hells Bells. Back In Black," Dean finally suggested with a near wince on his face. Upon Sam posing the question any good names he might have thought of had instantly hightailed it into hiding. Music had saved him on numerous occasions in the past so it had been worth a shot, but all it drew from Sam was laughter.

"Hey! Those are perfectly good names! Nothin' wrong with 'em."

"AC/DC, Dean? Hell Bells? Now what state would that be in…Hells Bells, Minnesota…or should it be Hells Bells, Ohio?"

"I'm going to hurt you. I'm going to pull this car over and kick your ass."

"No you're not."

"I _so_ am."

"Is that your perverse idea of bonding?" Sam inquired. The laughter had faded away and his expression was now one of utter lack of understanding. Dean recognized the taunt jaw and scrunched up forehead right away.

"Whatever, dude."

"You're weird. Very very weird," Sam offered, staring at his brother's profile intently, almost looking as if he thought if concentrated hard enough or waited long enough the mystery of Dean would unravel somehow right before his eyes.

"I know I'm good looking, but awestruck jealousy really doesn't work for you," Dean finally attempted a self rescue with. The feeling of being under a microscope was one he loathed.

"Funny," his brother replied and shifted his gaze out to the horizon. Stretching out the last of the kinks from his body Sam shifted up straighter in the seat then scooped the map from the floor between his feet.

"So what's in Hunter's Crossing?"

"Oh Sammy, my boy, I have a surprise for you."

"A surprise?" the reply was mumbled, heavy with confusion.

"Okay, maybe _surprise_ isn't exactly the right word, but it's definitely unexpected."

"I think I liked it better when it was a surprise. I sounded more like a good thing. Unexpected…makes it sound…well…not good."

"Trust me little bro."

"Dean Winchester's idea of the unexpected. That's right up there with Dean Winchester's idea of bonding." The words that left a smirk on Sam's face earned a lethal glare from his brother. Dean opened his mouth and was about to shoot back a sharp dagger of a comment, but the muffled ringing of the cell phone in Dean's shirt pocket halted the words from being spoken. The glare lingered for a beat before Dean looked back out through the windshield, pulling the phone out and flipping it open.

"Hello!" he stated rather formally, even though he had glanced at the caller id display.

"Yes," he continued after a few beats of listening. Then another quick breath of silence followed by another short reply.

"Sorta of. Started to, but…..yeah about right…...feel free, he doesn't really listen to me," Dean said before holding out the cell in Sam's direction. Instead of reaching for the phone Sam squinted at his brother a bit bewildered.

"Take it," Dean instructed, shoving the phone into Sam's right hand. Sam's reacted just by staring timidly at it grasped inside his hand.

"The unexpected," Dean offered and nodded his head in the direction of the cell. Finally Sam placed the phone to his ear.

"Hello."

"I hear you're not listening to your brother," John Winchester's voice answered back.

"No sir…well…okay maybe a little."

"Well maybe if you had he would have been able to tell you to expect me in Hunter's Crossing in two days."

"You're coming…here?"

"Yes, son, the three of us have a very important job to do there."

_To Be Continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Hunter's Crossing

Author: Signs Of Sun

Note: This particular fic so far has had a slow lead in, but trust me don't get comfortable. Let's just say in other fandoms I was famous for my angst. "grins mischievously"

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_Hunter's Crossing_

_Chapter 2_

"Where we going? Isn't the town the other way?" Sam asked as Dean steered the Impala into the wide right turn. A promising orange glow had been visible in the sky in the opposite direction. The collective orange hue that numerous streetlights in close proximity to one another creates illuminating the night meant a town and a town held the potential for a motel and, therefore, a hot shower and a bed to flop into. Sam's weary body longed for both.

"It is. We have an errand to run first."

"_Oh_. What's the errand?" Sam inquired inside an extended yawn.

"Dad wants us to stop by this cemetery outside of town and find a particular headstone."

"Did he say why?"

"It came from Dad, Sam, what do you think?"

"Need to know basis and we don't need to know."

"Bingo."

"I swear that man gets his kicks from being cryptic," Sam commented, shaking his head. To this Dean let out a mild laugh. He had to agree with his brother, John Winchester did seem to enjoy creating an air of mystery about himself and the things he did. He excelled at it and in turn excelled at endlessly frustrating his sons, Sam in particular. It rolled more fluidly off of Dean. Sam was consistently trying to change things and that caused spark filled friction. Dean, on the other hand, had abandoned futile missions at changing things and instead had begun focusing on just keeping everyone in one single piece. That occasionally caused it's own kind of friction, especially when one of the other two men was only seeing the flush red of revenge and forgot they were mortal, or maybe didn't care that they were. Keeping his brother and father intact was a full time job most days. The challenge of that endeavor was a strange mixture of invigorating purpose and insanity inducing frustration. The adrenaline rush always gave way to irritated exhaustion though and the constant up and down of it had worn grooves into Dean, invisible deep trenches where his own emotions seemed to take cover from the warfare.

Dean glanced over to the passenger side of the car, investigating the source of the commotion that had begun there. Sam had his upper body bent towards the top of his jean clad thighs, leaning his chest towards the dashboard. One item at a time he pulled things from the virtual grab bag of junk on the floor around his feet. First an empty Mountain Dew bottle then a crumpled up paper bag then a paperback book and on and on. Each new item apparently not being the one he was searching for he tossed them one after another over his left shoulder and into the backseat.

"Watch your aim there bro!" Dean instructed as one of his own cassettes came whizzing by, nearly smacking him in the right side of the face.

"Sorry," Sam stated without slowing in his mission to find some desired object Dean hadn't been clued into yet.

"Lose somethin'? Or you just in a cleaning kind of mood? Cuz if it's the cleaning thing my car could use a polish," Dean asked causally as his eyes searched the shadows along the left side of the narrow two lane road.

"Aha! Got it!" Sam announced proudly. Dean shifted his gaze over to his brother to find him using the sleeve of his jacket to wipe dirt from the laminated surface of a map of Vermont.

"Dude, I already got directions," Dean offered.

"Where?" Sam inquired and rapidly scanned the upper portion of the front of the car, curious of the whereabouts of the piece of paper that held instructions.

"In here," Dean replied, briefly lifting his hand away from the steering wheel and gesturing to his own head with his index finger. The motion elicited a slight shrug of acceptance from Sam who promptly tossed the map over the front seats and into the back so it could rejoin the family of debris it had briefly been separated from.

"So what we looking for?"

"Greenwood Cemetery. Six and a half miles from the right turn off Route 7. Langley Road. At the five mile mark veer left at the fork in the road. Entrance is on the left. Iron fence along the perimeter and two large oak trees stand at the top of the drive in," Dean rattled off with scarcely a breath.

"Sometimes I swear you had GPS implanted in your head while I was away at school."

"Nope everything up there is all natural," Dean replied inside a grin.

"I've spent more hours in the library at Stanford than even _I_ care to admit and I can still get turned around in the place. I'm willin' to bet if I walked you in there blindfolded then left you on your own to find your way out, you'd be back waiting in the car before I left the building."

"What can I say? I'm talented. Sides I'm sure if I randomly grabbed any book off a shelf while I was in there you could tell me exactly what it was about. Probably even quote it."

"Point taken. So this headstone, whose is it?"

"Some dude named Weller. Lucas Weller."

"And what exactly are we supposed to do at Mr. Weller's headstone?"

"Rub it," Dean stated.

"You're sick, ya know that, right?"

"No, Sam, we're doing a rubbing of the epitaph. I can give you some privacy afterward if you were into somethin' else," Dean threw back with a smirk. Turning his head once again to the driver's side window to survey the roadside he added the last little bit in a muffled whisper, more into the glass of the window than his brother.

"You little perv."

"I heard that," Sam replied and straightened up in the seat. The low black iron fence had finally come into view on the left and the twin trees marking the entrance to the cemetery were at the peek of the slow rise in the road a few yards further ahead. Night had deepened. Even the horizon where the sun's rays had lingered playfully for so long had lost all traces of day. The cemetery grounds were unlit. The expansive rows of markers were bordered on three sides by woods, adding to the shadows, to the depth of the darkness there.

Dean slowed the car and made the left through the entrance, passing between the two old oaks standing guard on either side. The tires of the Impala left the pavement and impacted with the gravel road, sending out a sharp crunch that was loud enough to be heard over the engine and the low hum of the radio.

"We have to go lookin' for it," Dean commented and pulled the car over to the edge of the road.

"You mean you don't know whether it's three rows in and five over or maybe six rows up and two over?" Sam replied teasingly.

"No I don't. How about you psychic wonder, why can't you tell me where it is huh?"

Sam closed his eyes tightly and scrunched up his face, faking intense concentration. He held it for a few seconds while his brother watched on, a very amused grin growing on his face. Sam's eyes popped open and he turned to look over at Dean.

"Yeah I got nothin'," Sam announced with a smile.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. It'd be nice if these abilities of yours came with a few extras, a few fringe benefits for _personal_ use."

"Even if they did we wouldn't be using them to get you dates."

"Did I say anything about using it to pick up chicks."

"Right? And I'm George Washington."

"C'mon George. I have some chalk or maybe a charcoal pencil in the trunk somewhere I think. We just need some paper," Dean responded. Cutting the engine and pulling the key from the ignition he exited the car. Dean headed for the back of the Impala and Sam twisted around in the seat in search of his backpack. Finding it on the floor behind Dean's seat he tugged the top of it open and removed his drawing tablet. After carefully tearing several sheets out of the pad he hopped out of the passenger side and joined his brother by the open trunk.

"I found the paper," Sam stated limply. Being in a cemetery had suddenly magnified tenfold his longing for that shower and hopefully at the very least a semi soft bed. Knee jerk reaction he supposed since most times they found themselves in a cemetery it involved a lot of shoveling.

Dean was head first and half falling into the trunk, reaching for a small duffle that was pushed towards the back and just out of his arm's length.

"Son of a bitch," Dean's voice muttered. It was followed by an irritated growl that expressed a hint of the other curse words that were floating inside his brain, but left unsaid.

The back of Dean's head was just visible and his upper body and the upper portion of his legs were stretched out over the closer part of the trunk. His knees were braced against the bumper. Sam's eyes drifted towards his brother's feet which he found were barely on the ground. He couldn't seem to recall ever seeing his brother on his tiptoes before, but he was now and apparently he wasn't too pleased with the situation. A streak of mischief raced through Sam's thoughts for an instant. It would be so easy just to grab Dean around the legs and flip him into the trunk. But Sam's weariness won out. The aftermath, the payback, for that moment of satisfaction wouldn't be something he could endure right at that moment. So instead of dumping his older brother into the trunk of the Impala Sam, barely leaning in, reached in past his brother and pulled the bag within reach.

"I knew there had to be something those freakishly long arms of yours would be good for," came Dean's muffled response. He then backed slowly out of the depths of the Impala's trunk, bringing the duffle bag along with him.

"Ha. Ha. I got the paper," Sam stated back. It came out limply and Dean glanced his way, investigating the weakness of the reaction to the dig he thrown his brother's way. Dean's eyes quickly scanned him up and down and satisfied that everything on the surface seemed okay he dug verbally.

"You okay, man?" Dean asked as he returned his gaze down into the open duffle bag they'd retrieved.

"Just tired is all," his brother replied. Dean nodded acceptingly and after a moment of rummaging around inside the bag he was rewarded with both a pencil and a large piece of chalk.

"Yeah I could use a few Zs myself. So let's get to work!" Dean announced. After scooping up their flashlights he slammed the trunk closed and took the lead off into the rows of gravestones. They searched silently for five solid minutes, working a few feet apart. Sam looking on the left half of the section they had arrived at and Dean the right. The heavily weighted sigh from Sam drew Dean's attention away from the stones and over to his left. His brother had stopped a row back and was just standing there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets and his gaze lost off in a distance.

"What's up, Sammy?" Dean called out quietly then slowly closed in some of the physical gap between them. He veered right into the next row just a handful of feet from Sam.

"Isn't this pathetic? I have visions and you're like a walking compass and we can't find one stinkin' stationary headstone that has a name in big letters etched into the front of it."

"it's here somewhere we just gotta keep looking. Don't get your boxers in a knot."

"I'm tired Dean. We didn't even stay the full night at that motel outside of New York yesterday."

"You got some rest in the car right? You didn't seem to have any…you didn't seem to even notice I stopped for gas and food, talked on the phone, and went through more toll booths than I can count."

"Yeah I got a couple hours, but I guess…"

"Guess what?"

"I need to stop moving for a couple days. Even when I'm not in the car I still feel like I am. You know like the momentum of it. I'm still moving."

"Well, as soon as we're done here we already have a place to crash."

"We do?"

"Sweet deal too. Some guy Dad helped out a while back told Dad as repayment we could use his lakefront cabin any time it was empty. Which apparently it is for most the year. We're holdin' up there."

"Serious?"

"One hundred percent. Place is ours so depending on how this job pans out maybe we can stay a couple extra days. I hear the lake attracts a lot of tourists this time of year. I'm sure there will be plenty of college girls on summer break looking for a little entertainment. And Sammy, my boy, I am a fantastic entertainer."

Sam chuckled at the swagger that made its appearance in Dean's walk just then. He looked up at Dean's face and found the dreamy expression he knew would be there.

"Only you could fantasize in a cemetery," Sam commented quietly.

"I'm multi tasking."

"Is that what you call it?" Sam threw back, openly amused. Dean just shot him a look that spoke a reminder to Sam that what was dished out could be thrown back at will. The younger brother chose not to push his luck, returning to visually wandering the dense rows of grave markers. Dean was the first to speak again.

"So this library you spent every waking moment at, any hot chicks there? No, wait, it's a mecca for nerds, I'll rephrase the question. Classy place?"

"Yeah, it was nice enough. I sorta had my own little corner in the archives in the law school library I could pitch camp in. Not a lot of people down there. Lost track of the time most visits. Jess always knew where to find me though and dragged me home eventually or if I had more studying to do she'd make sure I was fed. Bring me food she'd smuggle in her backpack."

"Sounds nice," Dean responded without looking away from scanning the names on each stone they passed. There was a sincerity in his voice that Sam hadn't been expecting. He'd been prepared for a wisecrack and when one hadn't arrived it left a quiet moment between them.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever think of going?"

"To Stanford. Not really my kind of gig, Sammy. Besides I don't think they let people on record as being deceased go to college."

"Not Stanford specifically. I meant college in general."

"Never really thought about it much I guess."

"You're lying," Sam stated with some bite to it. He took the extra long stride that put him in front of Dean, blocking his path forward.

"What?" Dean asked, faking confusion, and stopping abruptly so not to plow into his brother.

"You heard me. I said you're lying."

"I'm not lying Sam. What is your problem?"

"My problem is that maybe I want to know. I try to talk to you and you blow me off ever time. Just like you are now."

"I'm not blowing you off Sam. I don't know if you noticed but we're in a cemetery in the middle of the night looking for some dead guy's name of a slab of stone. Not exactly Oprah time."

"Dean, you could find a headstone in your sleep. Hell, you could find a dozen. We're not exactly overwhelmed with the task at hand here. Why won't you ever just answer my questions?"

"For one reason, you ask a lot of damn questions. And, second, why do you want to know, Sam? What does it matter if I ever thought about going to college? What does discussing this do, Sam? Huh? What purpose does it serve?"

"Because I want to know."

"Why? Why is it so damn important to you?"

"Because I missed so much."

"What are you talking about? Missed what?"

"I've realized something over the last year we've been ridin' together. I've realized I can predict your next move and the one after that or guess the words that will come out of your mouth five sentences from now and I thought I knew you better than I knew myself. But over the last year there have been moments when I realized there's whole sections of your life that I'm not clued into. And, sometimes, it makes me feel like I was wrong, that the one thing I knew so well, knew better than myself, has more dimensions to it that I don't know anything about."

"I could say the same about you."

"It scares me, Dean! You were always the one constant, the one thing I was crystal clear on, and over the last year it's been laid out before me that there were aspects I wasn't seeing…like it was an illusion that what I _saw_ was all there was. All I saw was what I wanted to see. It kind of ripped that sense of security away from me. There was no longer anything I was crystal clear on. And I felt like I'd lost something, something important, and I wanted it back."

Sam let his gaze drift from Dean to the earth under his feet as the last few words slipped out from between his lips. He hadn't intended to spill it out all at once like that and if he was truthful with himself he hadn't even put it all together in one piece like that in his own thoughts. Out of the blue the words had found their own way to one another and attached themselves to his voice. But now that he heard himself say it, reality sunk in. It was the truth. Dean was his one constant that was true and grounding and clear. Everything else was tainted in one way or another.

Sam's heartbeats counted out the tortuous seconds' long silence when he was done confessing to his brother. He managed finally to lift his gaze from the grass and soil in front of his feet. He was surprised to find Dean looking straight at him. Sam had anticipated for some reason that he would be looking away, focusing on some nonexistent emotion free place off in the distance he longed to be in. His brother's features were sculpted into an expression so unique, so solely Dean, Sam searched for but couldn't find the name of the emotion they were made of. Dean seemed stunned, frozen in his intent gaze at his younger brother. And oddly, amongst the deep well of emotions churned together on Dean's features, there was one thing that struck Sam most intensely. Even in the shadows shrouding Dean's face, Sam saw those green eyes full of love, and awe, and respect.

"You're an incredible person, Sammy. You see the world in a way that few do. But most of all you have the courage to put it out there without being afraid of saying it and it being heard. And I…respect that. And I'm sorry if you feel like I blow you off, but you've gotta understand….Sam, there are places I just don't wan…_can't_ go. And I'm asking you as my brother to please don't make me, okay?"

Dean's voice was verging on trembling as he drew his response to a close and Sam knew, truly understood as fact, that at that moment it would be cruel to push his brother any harder. It was territory that Dean couldn't cross with someone else yet. He needed to journey it on his own first, to scout it out, and then maybe someday guide someone else through. Sam seriously doubted if his brother would ever allow himself that release, that companionship through a place so scarred and possibly beyond repair.

So he simply nodded and stepped aside, allowing his brother passage beside him on the left. And Dean seized the chance he was given and quickly moved along, continuing to search through the darkness for their destination.

Sam trailed behind him, slightly fearful of suffocating his brother if he made his presence too close, too overwhelming. Dean had an innate sense of direction and Sam took advantage of that, letting himself glance around the cemetery and its surroundings instead of reading names etched in stone. The grounds went on row after row until they seemed to melt into the cover of the trees in every direction except off to the northeast. Set back amongst overgrown grass sat two buildings, a house and a two story barn. They were dark and rundown and sad looking. Houses like that always trickled a little sadness through Sam's heart. Somewhere in the past the building had been someone's home, had held the things dear to them, had provided shelter from the darkness.

"Lucas, my man, why have you been so shy? We've been looking for you everywhere," Dean's voice chimed out. The words drew Sam's eyes from the dilapidated buildings over to his right. Dean was ten feet and one headstone away, crouched in front of a small stone. Sam forced his body to pick up the pace a little and within a few seconds he was standing at Dean's left side.

"Maybe he was hiding from you because you said you wanted to rub his stone," Sam snorted out. Exhausted or not there was always energy for those rare moments that his older brother left the door so wide open for verbal attack.

"Just give me the paper," Dean griped and glared up at Sam looming over him. Sam smiled down at him, victory painted on his face, for a beat before sensing if he let it go any longer he would regret it. He surrendered the paper and in turn Dean handed over his own flashlight to his brother. Now a flashlight in both hands Sam provided the light while Dean completed several rubbings of Lucas Weller's epitaph. Dean finally stood up and for a moment both he and Sam looked down at the stone and the words there. "_Lucas Mathew Weller, October 24 1902-November 22 1934, A soul this world should have been blessed with longer. You washed away the darkness. And fought the good fight."_

"Well, somebody thought highly of Lucas here," Dean commented.

"Looks like. Awful lot of words for an epitaph. Fills up most of the stone too."

"Yeah it is a bit wordy. But it doesn't look like it was done by a professional."

"I wonder why Dad wanted a copy of his marker?"

"Not a clue. I'm sure he'll tell us if wants to."

"Yeah and only if he wants to."

"Don't start Sam."

"Fine!" Sam grumbled out and stalked away from the grave. Dean watched him go for a breath then looked back over to the words etched into the stone. Just for the briefest of flashes Dean envied Lucas Mathew Weller. The words scribed so deeply into that stone echoed so loudly that the man had made an impact in his short life. Dean hoped that when he went someday that he too would leave a dent in the darkness. He had no desire for words to be written out in stone, simply that it be the truth of his life.

"Hey Dean!" Sam's urgent voice tore his attention from the stone and back to his brother. Sam was back out on the path that divided the cemetery into two halves. Dean quickly made his way to his right side and followed the line of his younger brother's sight. Set back past the northeast corner of the graveyard sat a pair of old buildings, one a house and the other a barn. The windows of the house were illuminated with a very faint orange glow. Outside a form, a human looking form, stood on the porch lit by the glow from the house. The distance was too great to see any detail of the features of the form, but when it vanished and reappeared two times over any possibility that it was still amongst the living were eliminated.

"We should go check it out," Sam whispered without taking his eyes off the house. Before Dean even could exhale to respond Sam had started off down the path.

"Stop!" Dean called authoritatively after him.

"What?" Sam asked, pivoting around so he was now facing his brother, but very slowly moving backwards.

"We need weapons just in case. Stay put. I'll be right back," Dean threw back, but didn't move until Sam conceded.

"Fine," he stated with slight irritation and stopped. Dean headed back down the path to the Impala, twice glancing over his shoulder to check that his brother was still planted in the same spot. Both times he was and Dean moved quickly unlocking the trunk and retrieving the shotgun. Within a few brief minutes he was on his way back through the cemetery. Thankfully his eyes had adjusted to the darkness seeing as he was without a flashlight. Sam still had them both in his possession. He made fairly good time considering and as he approached the spot where he had left his brother he found it abandoned.

"Damn it Sam!" he spat out under his breath and increased his pace into a faint jog. Dean's eyes fixed on the old house as soon it came into view. The orange glow still illuminated the windows but even with the very faint moonlight trickling through developing clouds there was no trace of his brother. Dean's jogging strides broke freely into a run, covering the distance from the middle of the cemetery to the overgrown yard of the house in only a handful of heartbeats. Part of Dean wanted intensely to call out to his brother, to connect with him verbally, but there was a wild electricity in the air closer to the house that instinctively made him suppress the urge. Sticking to the heavier shadows on the outskirts of the yard Dean hurriedly headed for the porch. No trace of Sam anywhere outside, Dean raised the gun and climbed the steps noiselessly. The front door stood a quarter of the way open and he only needed to nudge it with his right elbow to open it enough to slip in.

Darkness submerged him again. Dean's eyes had adjusted to the faintly moonlight night outside but the interior of the house was much darker. The orange glow that had filled every window had vanished once he reached the entryway. Weapon still raised he lingered just inside the doorway for a few breaths until his acuity sharpened, assisted by a shred of moonlight filtering through the dust covered windows.

A sharp creak of the floor boards deeper back in the house triggered Dean into a faster pace of motion. Several more extended creaking sounds resonated through the air and then the echo a few rapid footsteps. Having skimmed the wall of the entryway Dean progressed closer to the source of the noise. Finally through the he caught sight of the beam of a flashlight panning around and bouncing off the walls of a room at the end of the hall. At this Dean allowed himself a deeper breath. It was probably Sam, who was about to receive an earful from his big brother and the meaning of the phrase _following instructions_.

The sensation of his body relaxing down from its tensed state vanished instantly when a loud injured grunt emanated from the room Dean was now only a few feet away from. It was a very human sound. The sound of the human body releases upon receiving a harsh blow. It was immediately followed by a crashing sound. Now acutely on guard Dean burst through the doorway into the room where the noises he originated from. Shotgun raised and ready he panned his gaze frantically around the room, expecting to see something evil that needed to meet with a whole lot of rock salt. The room was seemingly empty, but there was one place left uninvestigated, an open doorway off the room he stood in, which appeared to have been kitchen at one time. Beyond the doorframe was pitch blackness.

The fear was rising up in Dean's heart. The longer he went without locating his brother the better the odds something could happen to him With that thought flooding into his mind Dean headed for the doorway, taking the long way around so he would come at it from the side and not face on. The chances of being undetected at this point were slim, but it might give him a fighting chance. Arriving with his back against the wall just to the right of the doorframe Dean stopped, held his breath, and listened intently. Nothing. He inhaled and exhaled once, renewing his oxygen supply and then repeated the process. Still nothing. Then on the silent count of three he sprang out, weapon raised up at chest height, out in front of the open doorway. Emptiness met him, just that endless pitch blackness. Dean let his right hand take the sole position holding the weapon as his left fished around into his pocket for his lighter. He longed for his flashlight, the flame from the lighter would not provide him much warning for whatever he came upon. But Sam was here somewhere and it would have to do.

Shotgun in one hand, the lighter in the other he crossed over the threshold of the doorway and found himself on a landing at the top of a staircase. The glow from lighter only reached a few steps down and created the illusion that the stairway melted into a void. His heart pounding inside his ears and his breath locked up inside his chest he made his way slowly downward.

Three steps from the bottom he saw it. The motionless body of his brother lying face down on a dirt floor. An ache shot through Dean's heart and his voice broke the still.

"Sam! Sammy!" he cried out as his body nearly flew down the remaining steps. A pained grunt came from Sam just as Dean reached him and dropped to his knees at his side.

"Sam, you alright? Sam answer me!" Dean demanded rather harshly.

"I…I think I fell down the stairs," Sam mumbled out.

"Yeah that would be my guess. Anything broken?" Dean asked. With his lighter still in his left hand he glanced for an instant around the room they were in, a dirt floored cellar. No windows and only the one exit. But nothing harmful visible anywhere. Laying down the gun near his right leg Dean used his one free hand to help his brother sit up.

"Nothing's broken. But I'll be some intense shades of black and blue tomorrow."

"Well, I'd rather have you black and blue and still breathin' then your normal shade and not breathin'."

"Me too."

"What happened?" Dean asked, but the chance of any answer coming was stolen away. An intense screeching cut through the air of the room and Sam and Dean jerked their gazes in its direction. There was no time for effective reaction, not even time for Dean to scoop up the shotgun not a foot from his fingers. The tall thin ebony form was right there, mere inches from them, diving at them. Just before it appeared the evil entity would impact with their bodies it shot straight upward and at that instant Dean felt an invisible blow plow into his abdomen and chest. It was so dead on and brutally hard the breath departed his body and he was thrown backward. His body met roughly with the front of a large wooden chest. His back crashed bitterly with the solidness of it and his neck snapped back, slamming the back of his head into the wood.

Sam witnessed the attack and in his dazed state it seemed to take minutes to transpire, even though somewhere a corner of his brain registered it had all happened in a second. Until the instant Dean's head smacked harshly into the wooden chest and his body went limp Sam had been trapped, tied up in his body's own sluggishness from the fall he taken.

The image that met his eyes next washed every shred of its residue from his body though. Where his brother had been seeming to fall in slow there was now real time. His brother's body went limp and his intense grip on the lighter released. The Zippo dropped straight down, landing on the fabric of the button down shirt Dean wore over his t-shirt.

And in the next breath Sam's brother was on fire.

_To Be Continued…._


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Hunter's Crossing

Author: Signs Of Sun

Note: Thanks for the reviews everyone. Much appreciated!

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_Hunter's Crossing_

_Chapter 3_

The lighter fell from Dean's grasp, landing on his faded green shirt. The heavy fabric ignited instantly, but no movement came from his body. The hungry flames latched on to anything within its reach, engulfing both the right sleeve of Dean's button down shirt and the wooden chest he limply rested against.

"Dean!" Sam screamed, scrambling from his seat at the bottom of the stairs a few feet away. Diving at his brother he outstretched both arms in front of him and they connected with Dean's left shoulder and arm which were untouched by the flames. Dean's body toppled to the right, roughly impacting the dirt floor, but for the most part clearing him of the torch that the wooden chest had become.

"Dean! Wake up!" Sam's voice cried out desperately. The dirt had contributed just barely to reigning in the fire, but the wooden chest at Dean's back was fully engulfed now and the flames lapped out, growing, and the back of Dean's shirt was suddenly ablaze.

"God, Dean wake up!" Sam screamed again, tearing off his own jacket and frantically using it in a panicked attempt to beat out the fire attacking his brother.

There was scarcely a fraction of second between Dean's eyes flying open and the agonizing scream his voice sent out, filling ever inch of air in the room.

"Roll Dean!" Sam commanded his freshly conscious brother. Sam had just been about to start rolling Dean's body along the dirt floor, but the depth of Dean's scream had stalled him just of a fraction of a second. Sam's mind registered the sound and found it was saturated with panic more than pain. Laying on his right side and still dazed Dean went into a roll. His left arm came back slightly, using it to propel his body into motion and his left forearm connected with the burning wooden chest at his back. The fire easily devoured through the thickness of the green fabric covering his arm and found skin.

The heart wrenching cry that tore out of Dean's body sent Sam into overdrive. He tossed the jacket in his hands over Dean and with adrenaline enhanced strength rapidly rolled Dean over and over on his side across the cellar's dirt floor. Finally after his eyes rapidly surveyed his brother from head to toe and found not a single ember left simmering with fire he stopped.

"Oh, god, Dean! Dean? Dean, answer me! Dean! Answer me Dean!" Sam begged out. His voice was only able to create the words at the volume of a whisper, but the tone was demanding. And the rambling pace kept time with the frantic beat of Sam using both hands to pat down his brother's body, checking that there weren't any dangers left unattended.

"Dude, a little personal space," Dean hoarsely choked out. He was lying flat on his back, what portions of his body weren't covered with Sam's coat were filthy with the grime his body had collected from the cellar floor. Sam sat back on his heels and looked down at his brother's face. Dean's eyes were closed and his head was rested back against the dirt floor. The strain in his jaw line told the story, single focus on controlling the pain.

"Can you make it out of here?" Sam asked, glancing across the cellar to where the wooden chest was furiously being consumed by flames and the fire was crawling steadily across the collection of other assorted items piled next to it.

"It's not that bad," Dean mumbled while using his right elbow to prop himself up. The grunt that immediately followed the movement negated the words he'd just spoken. He forced his eyes open halfway and stole a peek at Sam who was glancing around the room. Sam hadn't believed his lie so the grunt had not phased him.

"What ya looking for?" Dean continued gruffly in an attempt to divert Sam's attention away longer. He started the slow progress of pushing himself into a sitting position.

"Water. There's none here though. We need to get out of here before this place burns to the ground." Sam looked back to his brother, finding him now trying to get up from his seat in the dirt. Sam instantly reacted by starting to reach out both hands to him to assist, but Dean shot up his hand out in front of him, telling him to stop.

"Touching me right now. Not such a good idea," Dean hissed out.

"Sorry," Sam responded and stood up himself. Dean had managed his own way to his feet, but was standing still with his head bowed. Sam could tell he was determinedly trying to collect himself, needed, wanting, to bury as much of physical pain and emotion as possible.

"Where the hell did that son of a bitch go?" Dean cursed. His head was still bowed and Sam knew it was more of an instruction for Sam to look around than an actual question to be responded to. It prompted Sam's gaze to methodically scan every corner of the cellar. Spotting nothing on the first pass he reluctantly moved away from his brother and back across the room to where the shotgun lay discarded in the dirt. The cellar was surprisingly large for the age of the building and the fire had only taken over the northeast corner. Sam noted the stairs were still clear, but probably not for long.

Shotgun in hand, Sam turned back towards his brother. Dean very slowly and careful working to peel off the button down shirt that had caught fire. For the first time Sam's mind really registered the condition of the shirt itself. The right sleeve was mostly charred away, leaving black areas covering most of it. The right collar and right front were in slightly better shape, the fire having been extinguished before it spread too far. The left front appeared intact and the left sleeve was blackened from Dean's upper forearm to his elbow.

The images sunk into Sam, sending his gaze away from his brother. One of the flashlights he had been carrying now lay darkened on the floor a few feet away. Sam stepped over and scooped it up in his left hand. He tried to click it on but no light arrived. He gave it a solid smack on its side, jarring the connections to fall in line, and the bulb flickered to life. The beam of the flashlight ended up illuminating Dean who now stood, rather unsteadily, with his head thrown back and the button down shirt only slipped part way down his shoulders. The task had been harder than first anticipated and Sam could see the frustration on Dean's face. Suddenly cold splashed through Sam, shaking him from the dazed fog that had captured him in the aftermath of what had happened. Their situation crashed in upon him. They were in a cellar where a fire was spreading, there was spirit hiding somewhere, and his brother needed a hospital. Somehow the realization triggered Sam's body into awareness too and he was seized by a coughing fit for a few long seconds. Smoke was taking over the cellar and stealing air from them.

"We gotta go!" his voice had stated before he even knew he had opened his mouth. Dean didn't respond in words. Lowering his head to look at Sam he nodded slightly and began to trudge across the dirt floor towards the stairs. The soreness from Sam's fall was beginning to creep up in his muscles but he managed to keep the shotgun and flashlight raised while he trailed his brother up the stairs. Every dozen breaths or so Sam would hear some version of pained noise from ahead of him. Dean would let out a hiss or a grunt or choice curse word under his breath as they navigated back through the house and out into the faint moonlight. Halfway across the yard Dean slowed his strides considerably and Sam caught up to his left side. His brother's stance was now hunched over a little and Sam could see how tenderly he treated his left arm. Sam was pulled desperately to assist Dean but simultaneously afraid to touch him for fear of inflicting further pain. Asking Dean would be pointless since Sam knew perfectly well the offer would be rejected fiercely. He had noted the back of Dean's shirt had only been burned on the shirt tail and the upper portion was untouched. After tucking the flashlight securely under his arm, braced between his body and his inner arm he offered what little he could by placing a steadying hand of Dean's back. His brother surprisingly and silently accepted the offer and it remained there the rest of the way to the car. Slowly retrieving the keys from his jeans pocket Dean turned them over to his brother who unlocked the passenger side door. Dean dropped down onto the edge of it with his legs still outside the car, bowed his head to his chest, and stopped moving. A sound halfway between a hum and a growl emanated from his softly. Sam crouched down in front of him, discarding the shotgun on the ground and leveling the flashlight near Dean's chest.

"Dean?" he begged. Dean's head remained tucked down and by moving so he was crouched a little lower Sam could see why. Dean's eyelids were squeezed closed but the corners of his eyes and his eyelids were watery. Tears were forming there.

"Dean, I'm going to take you to the hospital."

"No."

"Yes Dean."

"No hospital. It's not that bad."

"Uh, Dean you were on fire."

"My shirt was on fire…mostly."

"I can't believe you. You had actual flames coming off of you Dean."

"Off my clothing Sammy. I just need to get this damn shirt off me and I'll be better."

"Unbelievable," Sam grumbled and carefully assisted Dean in shedding the shirt. Once his brother was free of it Sam surveyed the damage. Dean's black t-shirt was in unexpectedly good shape, sporting only a few areas of scorched cotton. Dean's right arm from his wrist all the way up to his bicep was a brilliant shade of red. A second degree burn that resembled an intensely severe sunburn, but would hurt like there was no tomorrow. The right side of Dean's neck was a similar color and the far right side of his cheek an unhealthy pink. Sam's gaze traveled to his brother's left side. Dean's own eyes were focused there too on the spot on his upper forearm. The memory of Dean's left arm going back and connecting with the burning wood chest rushed back to Sam's thoughts. The skin in a small area just below the elbow was the worse of it, verging close to the edge of being a third degree burn.

"Damn Dean. You need to have that looked at."

"We'll take care at the cabin."

"Dean."

"We'll take care of it at the cabin Sam. End of story."

Sadness filtered into Sam as he realized short of driving to the hospital with Dean hostage in the passenger seat there would be no professional help for his brother. Anger chased in after the sadness, but he bit down on it and stood up. There had been pleading in Dean's eyes, a brotherly request that probably Dean hadn't even realized was there. There was so little Sam could think of to offer Dean at that moment so honoring his stubborn assed wishes would have to do, like it or not. He could always take his brother hostage and deliver him to the ER if Dean's condition worsened. Or even maybe if it didn't. He could honor the request by taking Dean to the cabin then heading right back out to the hospital. Probably not the best route to go down though so Sam settled on the original plan. If Dean worsened his brother was going to the emergency room like it or not.

"Yeah alright," he mumbled out as Dean gingerly twisted around so he was facing forward in the car and pulled his legs inside in the same motion. Sam slammed to door closed, scooped up the shotgun and after storing it back in the trunk, made his way to the drivers side. By the time he had put the key in the ignition and started the engine Dean sat motionless beside him. If Sam hadn't known better he would have guessed his brother was asleep, but that half hum half growl had returned. He realized Dean was creating it deliberately as focus or distraction or some odd combination of both.

Reaching the entranceway to the cemetery Sam finally spoke and only out of necessity.

"Uh Dean. I have no idea where I'm going."

"Turn left and go back to Route 7. Then a mile and half back there's a private road on the right."

"I'll never understand how you do that."

Dean let out a half grunt half laugh. Sam could sense him shift a little in the seat, straightening up.

"How you doin', man?"

"Survivin'."

"You're insane you know that, right?"

"It's strange that that thing didn't come after us again," Dean commented, ignoring Sam's last words regarding the refusal of a hospital visit completely. But Dean seemed a bit more animated now and Sam allowed himself the thought that maybe the burns weren't as bad as they looked. It was immediately rebutted though by the knowledge that it was more likely just Dean being Dean, covering with everything he had.

"It was kinda odd wasn't it?"

"Don't miss the turn man. Oops, too late." Dean said, watching their turn towards the cabin go by outside his window. Sam laid on the brake, jerking the car to a halt.

"Damn Sam!" Dean threw out angrily. The sudden motion had jolted him forward and irritated his damaged skin with impact into the door handle.

"Sorry about that," Sam replied, throwing the Impala into reverse on the empty road until they were back at the entrance to the road. He shifted and made the right and two bumpy minutes later they were climbing out of the car. Sam was already around the hood and at the passenger side before Dean even stood up, but Dean seemed to be moving alright unassisted. And that comforting thought from earlier crept back in, maybe it wasn't as bad as it looked.

"Nice place," Sam commented, finding a subject that would distract them both.

"You can say that again! I told you Sam sweet deal." Sam looked up at the building before them. The two story structure was a modern custom made log home with a wrap around porch, huge windows, and expensive detailing.

"Holy crap!" he added, studying it more in depth. Just the location overlooking the lake would have earned the place a price tag with a number followed by a long string of zeroes.

"Yeah the guy who owns it works on Wall street or somethin'," Dean replied, lethargically climbing the stairs. He poked around the moonlit porch for a few seconds squatting down beside one of the huge Adirondack chairs. Reaching underneath it he retrieved a key from the bottom side of the seat.

"You comin' or you just gonna stand there with your mouth hanging open?" Dean inquired and headed for the door. Sam could just make out the very edges of a grin on Dean's face when he looked back over his shoulder while unlocking the door. Relief spread through Sam. If Dean could manage that grin he was holding his own.

"I'm going to grab our stuff!" Sam called back.

"Okay!" was Dean's clearly audible response. But as Sam headed around to the trunk to retrieve their bags he heard Dean's mumbled addition, one not intended for Sam's ears.

"And I'm going to grab water, very very cold water."

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Dean had already been stretched out in a chair, his upper body covered in cool damp cloths by the time Sam entered through the front door of the cottage. His black t-shirt had been stripped off and lay forgotten on the floor beside the chair. His feet were propped up on the table out in front of him. Other than appearing to have the world's most painful looking sunburn he was sprawled out like he was napping. And he had stayed there quiet and oblivious while Sam had sorted out their stuff, dropping Dean's bag just inside the bedroom off the living room to the right and his own in the one on the left. The main upstairs bedroom was left for their father. Dean had finally moved from the seemingly content position only when Sam delivered several Advil to him along with a tall icy cold glass of water. He had swallowed them both down in scarcely a gulp and managed his way back to his feet, tossing the towels in the bowl of water that sat on the coffee table. After an apologetic comment about having nothing stronger right at the moment than ibuprofen Sam had trailed behind when Dean headed off into his bedroom.

"How in the world, Sam, could you not have learned by now?" Dean spat out in disbelief from his position in front of the dresser. The large rectangular mirror hanging directly above it allowed him sight of both himself and his younger brother. Sam had seated himself in a slouched exhaustion on the end of the bed to his right. His gaze was downward, studying the faded and swirled emerald design in the tan carpeting. Dean turned his head as far as he could to the left, running the fingertips and palm of his right hand over his short hair, then turned his head all the way to the right and repeated the process. Satisfied that his hair wasn't seriously singed he sluggishly grabbed his duffle bag from the floor just inside the doorway and plopped it in the chair by the window.

"Learned what?" Sam inquired and finally lifted his attention from the floor to the reflection of Dean in the mirror.

"Uh. Creepy building. Freaky ass spirit out front. Suspicious orange glow. Hmmm? Might not want to go inside alone and _unarmed_," Dean smart mouthed out. The tone, Sam knew, was caused by the physical pain Dean was in, but frustration was creeping through Sam's body anyway, demanding for everything else to be ignored.

"It looked like it was on fire. I had to make sure there wasn't anyone inside Dean. I can handle myself."

"You were face down in the dirt at the bottom of the stairs, Sam. You got a freaky idea of handling yourself."

"You were right behind me Dean."

"Yeah, lucky for you," Dean grumbled back while he sorted through his duffle bag. In do so he inadvertently bumped the zipper with his right arm, scraping the burned area near his wrist. There was a long beat while Dean looked off towards the door, away from Sam. But the younger man caught the deep wince that seized Dean's features for several heartbeats. Finally suppressing the pain back down below the surface Dean's voice returned.

"What if I hadn't been?"

"But you were."

"What if I wasn't? I was all the way down at the car. A lot can happen real fast, Sammy. Don't do it again."

"I'm sorry Dean."

"Don't go all wishy washy on me. Apologizin' and shit. Just don't do it again."

"I guess I knew you were behind me."

"Next time just wait for me."

"I'm not five anymore, Dean. I survived just fine on my own in Palo Alto."

"No, Sam, you're _not_ five anymore. So I figured you knew we worked as a team. Besides in Palo Alto you were battling textbooks not evil son of bitches looking to tear you into dozens of pieces."

"So it was okay when you worked jobs solo, but when it's me, it's not okay."

"I've been hunting longer Sam. And it was a real long time before I hunted solo."

"Man, you don't get it at all, do you?"

"I'm not in the mood for one of your free shrink sessions right now, Sam."

"You're unbelievable, you know that?"

"No, you know what Sam, forget it. Go ahead next time and get your ass kicked."

"You were the one with the shotgun and you ended up getting _your_ ass kicked anyway."

"All I want to do right now is lie down. If we really have to have this discussion, and please say we don't, I'm not havin' it tonight."

"Fine. Have it your way. Go to bed and pretend nothing happened like you always do!" Sam tossed back and glared at his older brother.

"Well, I would but you're sitting on my bed."

Wordlessly, Sam stood up, only finding the strength to do so by pushing his clenched fists down into the mattress underneath him. He exchanged a passing glare with his brother as he moved towards the door and Dean trudged for the bed.

"You're not always right, Dean."

"Go to sleep Sam! NOW!"

The anger inside Dean's voice was fueled almost entirely by physical pain. The knowledge of that truth was wandering the far corners of Sam's mind, but the long stockpiled frustration was overwhelming and irresistible.

"_Yes SIR_!" Sam smart mouthed out. He saluted his brother, about faced, and loudly stormed off into the living room. He stopped abruptly halfway between Dean's bedroom and his own and exhaled the breath he'd been keeping hostage to his anger. The sound of footsteps at his back drew him to glance back over his shoulder. Dean was at the doorway to his room, right hand positioned on the doorknob and his left arm held protectively in near his stomach.

Their eyes locked inside a glare for just a breath, but that was all the time Sam needed to witness the conflicted expression on his brother's face. Anger was embedded into the stern set of his jaw. The presence of the emotion was so strong that although intangible it had fused itself into Dean physical form, creating a near emotional fortress out of him. Sam could see though that Dean's eyes betrayed him, as they often did. The hurt residing in them was so razor sharp it stabbed into Sam mercilessly. The "Yes Sir" comment had been short in the number of words but held great unspoken insult in it. Both of them knew the words represented a summary of all the negatives about their father's militaristic parenting style and hurling the phrase at Dean had been assigning them to his brother too.

"Dean…" he started the apology softly, but the other man rejected it before it even really began, roughly shutting the door. Now alone in the living room Sam lingered there for a few moments, glancing aimlessly about the room. The ammunition thrown in a battle sparked by anger and frustration was chosen in haste, but once released the damage was done.

"Crap!" he said faintly and turned around, making his way to Dean's door. First he automatically placed his hand on the doorknob just to open it and enter in unannounced as usual. Catching himself he pulled his hand away and raised it to knock, but couldn't follow through with it.

"Just let it go, Sam. Let him cool off first," Sam whispered to the empty living room and himself. He allowed his hand to drop back to his side and after a few seconds managed to turn away from the door, leaving both of them alone in their own separate emotional universes.

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Sam had been laying sprawled across the blissfully soft bed for over an hour, having given in to his exhausted body. Ever inch of him had ached and begged rest. His cramped muscles and throbbing head had been the co-champions at taking him down from his standing position staring out the window into the darkness.

But the tiny shreds of restfulness were a short lived gift.

_Sam's eyelids were still closed but the brightness struck him harshly anyway. He forced them opened just a fraction of the way, absorbing the sharp pain it brought with a gasp._

_The shock of the image before his eyes involuntarily shot his eyes open the rest of the way. Fire. The world was endless flames, nothing on the edges, nothing on the other side, only flames. But somehow he knew he wasn't in danger. The fire didn't seem to even give off heat and he was separated from it somehow as if watching it through a thick glass wall._

_After a few seconds his vision had adjusted to the orange yellow brightness and he could see something straight ahead of him in the center of the inferno. He squinted and his acuity sharpened. At the same time the image seemed to become more solid where at first it had been nearly transparent._

_There standing inside the fire was Dean._

"_Dean!" he cried out and in reflex started forward after his brother, but his body couldn't follow the command it was given and Sam discovered he was locked in the spot he stood in. _

_Helpless to do anything more Sam studied his older brother. Dean was standing tall, the look on his face not a bit tainted with fear or pain. Dean's gaze was fixed out ahead of himself, directly at Sam, but Sam could gather that he wasn't visible to his brother, not in this world of fire. The look floating inside Dean's green eyes was unmistakable though. Concern flooded them, but not for his own safety, for someone else. The usual determination resided there too. Sam cried out to offer assistance, to find out what his brother was searching for and how he could help. Sam's body responded by the opening of his mouth but when the words came up through him from his internal voice they were lost at the threshold of his lips. The sound of his own voice never came out of his mouth. Instead Sam's ears faintly registered sounds off in the distance. Sam strained to hear more clearly. He could distinguish there were two separate sounds and closed his eyes and bore down, focusing on the noises. First, a rushing sound, layered together with static, a crackling. It was constant and growing louder. It was the sound of the fire. The second sound was even more distant and the signal to Sam's mind so weak. He listened and waited, his own heartbeat echoing inside his body louder than the noise. Finally recognition set in. It was his brother's voice calling out words he couldn't make out. _

"_Dean?" he whispered and opened his eyes again. His older brother was still standing surrounded by fire off in the distance. Dean's lips were moving now but the sound of his voice was not at a volume any louder than before. His expression had evolved. The determination in his eyes and in the strained muscles of his jaw were now mixed with a desperation. The urgent need was evidently not for himself though, but for something unidentified to Sam. Sam focused on the movement of Dean's lips, searching for even a trace of what his brother was saying, but all he could be confident in was that Dean was calling out for someone. A name passed over his lips but Sam couldn't quite grasp onto it and the other words were melted together._

_Sam's gaze drifted back to his older brother's eyes and what he found prompted him to blink a few times. The attempt to adjust his vision was ineffectual. Where Dean's eyes had been a solid green there was now a more transparent image with a background of flames. Surveying Dean's entirety Sam discovered that the fire was working its way up along his body. The hungry force had reached his knees and the rest of his body was now a transparency. Dean was still unreactive to the monster consuming him, focusing solely on whatever it was he called out so urgently for._

_Sam's visual acuity was rapidly becoming hopelessly distorted as the beginning of tears formed in his eyes. His heart sunk deeper and deeper as he attempted again to move towards his brother and was physically barred from doing so. Part of him wanted to close his eyes and retreat mentally to a distant ignorant haven his mind had created a long time ago and reserved for times like these. But another piece of him knew his brother was fading out of sight and he needed to have every last second with him possible. So Sam looked on from afar as flames worked slowly up over Dean's body, consuming every inch. The image of Dean's face became fainter and fainter and the brightness of the fire more and more intense._

_Sam found himself unable to exhale as the fiery force ate away at his brother's form, reaching the level of his heart and forging fearlessly onward. _

_And in the next instant Dean was gone._

_Where his brother had been there was only fire._

_To Be Continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Hunter's Crossing

Author: Signs Of Sun

Notes:

To_ princess peanut's _comment "And it wasn't short! Lol!"

Too funny. True. Chapter 3 _wasn't_ short. Sad part is that it's not even the longest fanfic chapter I've ever posted. I do believe my record was in the neighborhood of 7500 words. But that was a long time ago and many fandoms past. I promise to try to keep myself restrained-I tend to go on a bit. LOL!

To _Ghostwriter_: "Guilt dream or premonition?"

Nice catch! I was wonderin' if anyone would ask.

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_Hunter's Crossing_

_Chapter 4_

_The blast, a gigantic wall of flames in flight, exploded outward towards the spot where Sam stood. The force shook his body straight to the core, but his feet were still involuntarily planted in place. The fire barreled forward and escape became hopeless. Sam's braced himself for the impact only for the deep orange flames to suddenly vanish mere inches from connecting with his skin. They were replaced with a single heartbeat of brilliant and warm blue, almost white, light before darkness arrived._

Sam blinked his eyes and rolled his head to the side, glancing around first off to his left then the right. His gaze met with the ordinary objects of any bedroom; a six drawer cherry finish dresser, his worn out duffle sitting in the big cushy chair by the window, a mirror, a large closet, and only other items that rightfully belonged in the space.

His head rested off to his right against the pillow he studied his own reflection in the rectangular mirror for a moment. His mind sifted through the debris of what he had seen, but stumbled over and over on one particular obstacle, whether the images had been a vision, a straight out dream, or a mixture of both-a vision within a dream. The recollections of lying down on the bed, of closing his eyes, of taking in the softness of the mattress, and of listening to the stillness of the night were all clear. But had he fallen asleep? The answer was elusive, always just out of reach by lurking in the shadows of his mind. He knew he had been close to going under, having let his body wander off towards that surreal place in between sleep and wakefulness. But had he gone there completely? At first pass it seemed so, but his brain registered that the pounding inside his skull had been present inside at least pieces of the journey. And he hadn't jolted awake. He had simply and slowly opened his eyes. In fact, the peaceful feeling that the brilliant warm white light had sent through him lingered, suppressing immediate panic.

"Dean," he whispered out, realizing there was a possibility that the images had been more than just a regular dream. He had hoped to find evidence that solidified that what he had witnessed had been created out of the previous evening's events. But doubts rose up in him, adamantly resisting the idea that it had simply been a creation of his emotions, his fears.

Throwing back the sheet Sam swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. He bowed his head, tucked his chin to his chest, and for a long moment sat there, searching his mind and body for traces of what level of consciousness he had been in only minutes before.

But the residue had been washed away from him far too quickly. Blowing out an over burdened exhale he left the bed behind and wandered out of the room. The unfamiliar living room was navigated easily by use of the faint moonlight that trickled in through the huge windows that spanned most of the lake side front of the house and Sam reached the kitchen without turning on any lights. He had scouted it out earlier when they first arrived and promptly decided that if the house's owner considered this a cabin then his regular house must be a full fledged mansion with accompanying estate grounds. The beautiful black stone countertops, brand new appliances, enormous island, and pricey detailed hickory cabinetry cost what most people's annual salary came to. And that was just the kitchen. He went directly to the refrigerator, a sleek stainless steel giant of an appliance. Reaching down for the handle of fridge side of it he caught sight of the water dispenser. Sam shook his head and let out a tiny laugh. Dean had probably gotten excited when he had seen it. Conveniences that were small and insignificant to most like the water dispenser here with its crushed ice feature and the steam shower in that town where they had survived an army of bugs invading were always not so small and trivial to his brother. What was normal to some was luxury to others. Dean's life had been the road. Sam had had a few years in a place that he and Jess had made into a comfortable home to retreat to at the end of a long day. Sam's particular favorite purchases had been the top of the line coffee maker and the desk made out of real wood, not the fake stuff that just looked like wood. They had set it near the window that overlooked a corner of the campus and Sam had happily spent hour after hour there.

Even their father had been gifted with a portion of his life where there were a few indulgences like the incredibly comfortable and rather expensive sofa he had talked Mary Winchester into purchasing. Their father had relayed the story as if it had been a fight for Sunday afternoon football viewers everywhere. How could a man kick back with a beer and pizza and cheer on their team without the proper seating? At the memory of his father rare moment of sharing Sam truly grinned.

It was a strange thing. Sam and his father had been gifted those memories to only have them torn away. Dean, on the other hand, had a different kind of a monster, a void. He may not have had to experience the loss, but he also had been shorted of the gifts in the first place. He never had gotten to experience those things. Sam wasn't sure which was worse. Most days, he adamantly voted for his end of the deal, but there were moments where he was saddened that his brother had to take the tiniest opportunities in the microscopic windows of time in which they were available to him. A steam shower in an empty house they had broken into or a few days in a borrowed luxury cabin with a state of the art kitchen.

Shaking his head harshly Sam abandoned the line of thought. It was a road he knew he shouldn't continue down. The places it led were places to be avoided as long as sanity remained a goal. Finally opening the refrigerator he snatched a Poland Springs bottled water and closed the door again.

On his way back into the living room he stretched a bit, rolling his shoulders and twisting at the waist slightly back and forth. The nagging kinks were the leftovers of exhaustion and a tumble down a flight of stairs. He stopped in front of the nearest window and peered out into the night. The world had a blue hue attached to it, the work of moonlight. The lake was calm and Sam noticed the dock jutting out into the water off the property of the cabin. If insomnia took up camp in his body he would trek down there and sit for a while. Sam cut short opening the icy cold bottle of water to turn his attention to a noise over his left shoulder.

"Son of a bitch!" came the muffled irritated voice that could only belong to his older brother. The door to Dean's bedroom was still closed and Sam stared at it for a moment. His heart tugged at him to go knock on the door, but his mind wondered if he could get away with creeping back to his bedroom. Somehow his brother was always able to tell that Sam had been assaulted with a nightmare or a vision. All Dean had to do was look him in the eyes and there was no changing his mind, convincing him that there had been no painful images or stressful string of events was a lost cause. Sam had tried it a dozens of times, but Dean was able to see the truth and went straight into worry mode. The last thing Sam wanted, both for himself and his brother, was a worried Dean. It seemed a gear his brother was in all too frequently in recent days.

The decision was made by the clunk sound that followed the cursing. Sam made his way around the tan L shaped couch and arrived at his brother's door. He inhaled deeply, blew it out slowly, and rapped his knuckles on the door lightly. Leaning in his towards the door he listened, but suddenly the activity from inside had ceased. He tapped again on the wood in something that vaguely resembled a knock, but it elicited no reaction from inside the bedroom.

"Dean?" he offered softly, very slowly opening the door. Calling out his name and the lethargic speed of opening the door were mostly so that he wouldn't surprise his brother when he entered, on the off chance his knocking hadn't been heard. Surprising Dean Winchester wasn't really recommended for health reasons. The man's reflexes held potential for unpleasant consequences.

Sam poked his head inside the room as soon it was open enough to slip a portion of his upper body through. Realization swept over Sam. He was completely unnoticed which couldn't be a good sign. Dean was sitting up on the edge of the bed, head bowed, chin tucked in towards his collarbone. His upper body rocked back and forth gently in a consistent slow beat. There was a large water soaked towel draped over his shoulders, each of its ends covered the upper portion of an arm. The fingertips of Dean's right hand were desperately clamped around the wrist of his left. His left forearm was held just slightly out away from his body, untouched by the fabric of the towel.

"Dean," Sam stated again. His brother was so far tucked into himself, mentally coping with physical pain that he had virtually blocked his surroundings out and hadn't registered Sam's presence.

Opening the door the rest of the way Sam stepped inside and moved towards his brother. Crouching in front of the bed where Dean sat Sam spotted the cup laying on its side on the floor beside the bed table. There were a puddle of water slowly soaking into the carpet. It explained away the clunk sound he had heard. Returning his attention back to Dean, Sam found his brother glancing up at him briefly. It was just an instant of acknowledgement, but it carried a lot of weight. Dean knew Sam was there, but wasn't regrouping his position or anything to try and cover the discomfort he was in.

"Dean, is there anything you need? Anything I can do?"

"A glass of water would be good."

"Here," Sam responded, offering him the bottled water he'd carried with him all the way from the kitchen. Dean released his grasp on his left wrist and accepted the bottle.

"You really are psychic, aren't you?" Dean commented, a faint teasing in his tone.

"Not this time. Just thirsty."

"If it was yours then here," Dean replied, straightening up a fraction and holding out the water for Sam to retrieve.

"Man, there's like a case of the stuff in the fridge. You're not exactly depriving me of anything. Besides you have to be careful and make sure you drink a lot of fluids. You're at risk for dehydration."

"Thank you Dr. Winchester," Dean threw back, a bit of his smart mouthing talent resurfacing.

"Just drink the water, you pain in the ass." Sam stood up when his brother opened the water and took an extended drink, leaving half the bottle empty. Sam aimlessly wandered the room, studying the objects in it half heartedly. It was much like his own room and held a queen size bed, the dresser and mirror, a large cushy chair by the window, and a closet. The only exceptions were the room had its own private bathroom and the walls were decorated with what appeared to be family photos. By the time his gaze drifted back to his big brother the bottle of Poland Springs water lay empty and discarded on the bed. It provided Sam with something to occupy himself so he could resist the urge to ask Dean how he was doing physically. He grabbed the bottle and went into the bathroom. After tossing it in the trash can there he located the stack of clean towels in the cabinet and took one of them back into the bedroom.

"You haven't slept at all have you?" he asked, kneeling on the floor near the bed table. He picked up the drinking glass and set it near the lamp on the night stand and then worked to mop up the water on the carpet.

"Sleep? Whose needs sleep? All the good stuff happens at night, doesn't it?"

"I guess that depends on your idea of _good_ stuff. In your case, I suppose, yes that would be true."

"You always were one of those really annoying morning people. Always needing to convince everybody else of the benefits of an early start and getting up at the crack of dawn."

"Yeah you and Dad were always night people. Necessity of the job I guess."

"Evil doesn't really keep banker's hours huh? As they say the freaks come out at night."

"Well, think of this way. At least you don't have to call ahead and schedule an appointment?"

"That's true. Mostly just show up and kick the holy crap out of them."

Sam let out a warm laugh agreeably. There was a trace of fondness floating on the surface of it at the same time. Dean had a way of keeping things simple. He was one of those rare people who didn't see the need in complicating everything by sugar coating or watering down or spicing up. Dean tended to be more like an arrow that seeks out its target, straight from bow to bull's eye.

"It was kinda cool though sometimes. The times I didn't go. You and Dad would sleep past noon, having stumbled in at some god forsaken hour. After I'd patched you guys up, you two would crash, and I had the whole morning to myself."

"Yeah what exactly did you do all those mornings?"

"How do you think I got into Stanford?"

"You're telling me you studied that whole time?"

"Mostly."

Dean nodded and let out a soft "hmm" noise, a sound halfway between agreement and pondering. Quiet seized the room for a long moment before Sam finally had gathered up the energy to bring up the topic.

"Listen, Dean."

"Sam, don't. What's done is done."

"You sure...cuz..."

"We're cool, Sam."

"Yeah okay," he sighed out and let only a heartbeat pass with nothing between them. He could either change his mind and fight his brother on the point or move along. He chose, at least for the time being, to move along.

"So this thing back at that house. What do you think it was?" he asked.

"I didn't exactly get a very long look at it."

"Yeah me either."

"Rude son of gun though. Some kind of hospitality huh?"

"Tell me about it. One minute I'm at the top of the stairs and the next I'm eatin' dirt at the bottom."

"Guess we'll have to teach it some manners."

"Yeah, good luck with that," Sam laughed out.

"Maybe some kind of malevolent spirit. We'll check out the history of the house. Shit! The house. Wonder what's left?"

"Fire department should have gotten there not too long after we got here. I called while I was getting the bags out of the trunk."

"Sorry. Guess I was a little _distracted_."

"Yeah I sort of figured burning down a building and possibly starting a wildfire might not get us off on the right foot in town."

"Good thinkin' Sammy."

"Nice visitin' with you too. Don't wish me good night or anythin',' Dean added when Sam abruptly departed the room. A few seconds of Sam's footsteps traveling the distance from one bedroom to other followed. A moment of silence then the heavy footfalls returned again before Sam reappeared in Dean's bedroom, laptop in hand. After just a few seconds of visually searching the room he located the phone jack and plugged the cable into the DSL filter that was there. Then he plopped down in the big sage green chair by the window, setting the computer on the little table under the window.

"I'll see what I can find," Sam commented.

"Knock yourself out," Dean mumbled. Sam opened the laptop and dug in, working in silence for ten or so minutes.

"So far nothing on the house. And nothing on the spirit. I have a feeling one is linked to the other so I just need to hit upon a trail for one or the other."

"You'll find it," Dean responded reassuringly.

"I sure have found a bunch of other interesting stuff though. Dude, New England is jam packed with ghosts. I mean we could hang here in this region for months and still find jobs."

"Sounds good. Take notes geek boy."

"You actually want to stick around after this job of Dad's, whatever the heck it is, is done? You want to hunt more of these things that have nothing to do with what were really chasing?" Sam inquired and lifted his gaze from the screen long enough to throw a sideways glance at his brother.

"It's what hunters were made to do," Dean replied simply. He sensed Sam looking over at him, but he didn't meet his gaze. Instead he alternated between studying the details of the walls and letting his eyelids slide closed.

"You were made _for_ it? Or you were made _into_ it?"

"Doesn't matter."

"But don't you ever wonder?"

"Sam, I am what I am," he paused for a moment, a smirk spreading over his lips, realizing how that had come out so he added a chaser, "and I do not like green eggs and ham."

"I don't believe you just said that."

"Honestly, I'm not really sure I do either. But serious Sam. It doesn't matter how I got here. It matters that I'm here. I'm a hunter. Okay, so I'm not exactly Mr. All American normal but …"

"What?" Sam asked quietly. Finally Dean looked over at him and held his gaze.

"I like it. Looking back and asking 'what if' and 'why' isn't going to make a difference. What's going to make a difference is doing what I have within my power to do, to make better. It'd be a waste not to use what Dad taught us."

"Okay, so it has it's moments."

"See now that's what I'm talking about! I knew you had it in ya. You've been holdin' back on me Sammy boy."

"I said it has its _moments_. I didn't say I was ready to sign up for life."

"I'll wear ya down eventually. It's just a matter of time. Resistance is futile."

Sam let out a noise verging on a snort and turned his attention to the laptop again. He could hear Dean shift on the bed, laying back and stretching out his legs on top of the blankets. Sam resisted the urge to glance up when a groan accompanied the settling in. The dim light in the room departed with a click as Dean turned off the lamp on the bed table.

Sam had been searching a short while unsuccessfully. Every time he thought he was on the right path it only led to a dead end. Removing his fingertips from the keyboard he ran his palms down over his face and allowed himself a long yawn.

"I can't find any..." he started, turning to look over at his brother. He let the remainder of the sentence go unspoken. Dean's body was completely still with the exception of the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Exhaustion had taken him. He'd fallen asleep flat on his back on top of the covers with the exception of his left forearm and hand which hung limply over the edge of the bed. Sam suspected that the burn there felt better in midair than in contact with anything else. That was probably the reason for falling asleep above instead of under the blankets and sheet. Dean had refused the hospital, but Sam had already decided that once daylight hit he would go in search of something stronger than that ibuprofen to offer Dean.

Sighing he collapsed back into the oversized chair and struck a deal with himself. He'd rest for just a few minutes then forge on with the internet searching.

It wasn't meant to be though. Only a few quiet moments later Sam had joined his brother in slumber.

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The dark form skirted the edges of the moonlit clearing where the log home sat. Its speed made the distance from the water's edge to the backyard in just a few breath's time. There was no noise, no tell tale sign of its movements, as it left the perimeter of the yard and journeyed towards the porch. Only the tension of its purposefully motions hung in the summer night air.

Arriving at its destination the form began to seek out the end of its mission.

The home's occupants remained sleeping deeply, oblivious to what lurked so close by in the shadows.

_To Be Continued…_


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Hunter's Crossing

Author: Signs of Sun

Notes: Thanks all for taking the time to read this story.

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_Hunter's Crossing_

_Chapter 5_

The first waking sensation that swept to Dean's body was of breathlessness. He struggled against the heaviness of sleep in search of control of his muscles, of just his lungs even, but the progress was arduous. Sheer exhaustion had submerged him into a place where swimming up to resurface was like pushing the weariest of bodies through a strong undertow.

Focusing solely on breaking the surface he inched his way closer. From breathlessness Dean's body progressed into alarmed oxygen deprivation. The lining of his lungs ached, burnt, desperately for a single deep breath and the loud throbbing of his blood inside his ears tore into him. Dean's intellect screamed that there was air somewhere, he just had to surface, and he'd be rewarded with it.

He just had to save himself from drowning, save himself from being starved of the precious life force.

The break through the resistant barrier came with a small gasp for air and relief spread through his body as the oxygen raced outward through his system. Opening his eyes Dean's found himself gazing up at the ceiling, a faint light illuminated the white paint there. Rolling his head to the left in the direction of the light's origin, he found the window of the bedroom. Dawn was just breaching the sky and had crept through the thin white fabric of the curtains covering the window, letting in a soft gray glow to the room. Just to the right of the window sat Sam fast asleep, his upper body curled up into the corner of the oversized chair. The laptop sat on the table a foot away from his head, opened but darkened in its idleness.

The need to quench his thirst, to take in icy cool water over his parched lips, won out over Dean's distaste for rising at such an evil hour. So in rapid succession he sat up, twisted around, and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The instant his feet hit the carpet he knew it had been a mistake. Every inch of his torso, arms, and neck hurt. The muscles there ached fiercely and his skin was bone dry and felt like it had been stretched so taunt it would crack apart upon a single touch.

"Son of a bitch," he mumbled out, delivering a harsh blow to the mattress with the palm of his right hand. It was more irritation packed than pain filled though. If just sitting up had delivered that much discomfort then what was going in search of his precious water going to bring. What had to be done, had to be done though. A passing thought of lying back down and waiting for Sam to wake had been tempting, but nothing he would allow himself to give into to. Instead he clenched his hands into steeled fists, braced them down on the mattress on either side of his body, squeezed his eyes tight, and stood up. Red hot pain tore through his chest, sending the aftershocks rippling out through his arms.

"Holy cr…!" he started to spit out aloud, but reigned it back in upon his eyes opening and his gaze landing upon his brother. Dean closed his eyes and stood waiting for the wave to completely wash away in his body before moving again. After a half minute only a faint residue remained and he peeked his eyes opened once again. Sam hadn't stirred in the chair a bit thankfully so Dean set out on the mission for water.

By the time he made it to the doorway of the bedroom he settled upon that limiting the use of his upper body would be the best strategy. Fortunately Sam had left the door out into the living room wide open the night before. Dean let out a chuckle at the occurrence. When they were younger Dean had to practically follow behind his brother, switching off lights, closing doors, and picking up things left forgotten. Sam was always focused on the future, on the hopeful someday, or on the ghost filled past. His mind rarely seemed to visit the present. Dean always figured that lovely area had been left to him.

The living room was drenched more entirely with the return of daylight and he made it quickly through to the kitchen. On the third try he found the cupboard that held the glasses and turned towards the sink. His hand on the knob he spotted the dispenser on the front of the refrigerator. He left the sink behind and arrived in front of the appliance. He briefly wondered if the person who owned the house might require their services more often because he could get used to the incredibly comfortable bed, nap worthy chairs, and fully stocked kitchen. He dismissed the thought though deciding he didn't wish any further supernatural encounters on anyone whether he knew them or not. After filling the tall glass with a combination of crushed ice and water Dean took a long spill.

"From hell to heaven in under sixty," he commented then drank down every last drop in only a few heartbeats. The sensation of the liquid was blissfully icy and his dry lips, mouth, and throat lapped up the moisture gratefully. A brief blast of a headache resulted from the intensity of how cold the water was, but once it passed Dean placed the empty glass down on the counter and glanced at the refrigerator. The relief brought a smile to his lips and just for an instant he would have liked to have thrown himself at the stainless steel appliance and given it a big old hug for what it had done. But he suspected that it would be just his luck that Sam would wake up and find him like that so instead he refilled the glass to the very top and gave the fridge a pat of thanks as he headed out of the room. He stopped in front of the window nearest the door and looked out at the early morning. The lake was a dark gray and the trees surrounding it tousled their leaves gently in the breeze. The scene was inviting compared to the how stuffy the house was. Dean set the glass on the end table beside the couch and trudged back to the bedroom where he located his discarded jeans and shoes. Gathering them up he visually checked on Sam. After sleeping in the same room for so long it only took a few seconds to see that his brother was sleeping deeply. There was no distress in his expression, no sweat glistening on his skin, and no mumbling. His brother was getting some quality sleep so between the two of them they were at fifty percent at least. Returning to the living room he slowly pulled on his jeans over his boxers. Then succeeded in first stuffing then shimmying his feet into the shoes without ever needing the use of his sore arms. Scooping back up the glass he had abandoned earlier he exited the house through the front door.

The cool early morning air flooded over Dean's bare arms and chest before he had even pulled the door closed behind himself. He moved to the top of the steps and stopped, letting the breeze dance over his shirtless upper body. He'd left the stuffiness of the house behind and he took in deep breaths for the first time since waking. Glancing around the porch he weighed his options; several big wooden Adirondack chairs, two wicker chairs, and a porch swing with no cushions.

"The stairs it is," he announced and took a seat on the top step. It was the only choice that didn't hold potential for brushing his damaged skin up against something hard and scratchy and he'd give a lot to avoid that.

Finally he returned to long sips of the cold glass of water and looked out over the lake. The gray of dawn was fading away and the first hints of color were painting the sky in pale watercolor shades. The sun would soon crest the horizon and usher in day.

Despite the discomfort from his burns it was a good place to be. The ending of night and the beginning of a new day could never heal everything, but it had always washed away a little of the residue left by darkness. And this day was no different. There was renewed hope and purpose and clarity in the colors that soaked the sky and in the deep orange rays that breathed life into day.

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Sam inhaled deeply and released it slowly. He shifted his head a little higher on the soft fabric of the chair and ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. After a contented trace of a smile teased his mouth he shifted his whole body straighter in the seat. The rare light and warm dream was fading out of sight as he was waking. Repeated attempts to grasp back on to it had gone unrewarded so he mentally wished it a sweet but reluctant goodbye. An exhale later he opened his eyes to the glow of faint daylight trickling into the bedroom. He glanced over to the bed across the room and discovered it empty. Dean must have had trouble sleeping if he was up at such an early hour. Or as his brother had proclaimed in the car he had snored. Perhaps Dean had vacated due to the noise. A little chuckle escaped Sam at the thought. It was kind of humorous if it turned out to be true although he'd never hear the end of it.

Standing up he glanced out the window. The sky was the palest of blues and the large backyard was still under cover of shadows. But the summer sun would probably banish them soon. Although certainly not a full night's rest Sam's body felt slightly recharged. The grumbling of his stomach made him realize that they hadn't eaten dinner the night before. In fact the last time he'd eaten had been several hundred miles south of where he now stood. From what he had determined from his poking around in the kitchen the night before it appeared the house's owner had a caretaker who routinely kept the place cleaned and stocked with supplies. Sam supposed that the house's owner often leant out or rented out the house and maybe even had a habit of flying in for a long weekend. Really the food shouldn't go to waste and he was suddenly very willing to do his part so he headed across the room.

Sam reached the doorway just as the sharp pain ripped through his skull. His body lurched forward slightly as the vision struck and he had to use both hands braced against the doorframe to keep any semblance of equilibrium.

_For an instant the image of Dean standing in an inferno pulsed inside his mind._

_Followed by thick ebony smoke filling a hallway and stairwell._

_Then blackness and Dean's voice echoed the name 'Mathew' in a desperate call._

_Fire exploded out through the windows of a building and the sound of shattering glass came at the same instant._

_A dark shape backlit by flames._

_An elderly man disappeared into endless fire._

_More blackness crashed in._

_Accompanied by the disturbingly loud sound of a single thump of a heart._

_A silent flash of intensely hot bluish white light then everything dropped into slow motion. Every detail vivid, overexposed._

_Their father gently ran the palm and fingertips of his right hand down over Dean's face from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. The elongated sad motion of a father closing his oldest son's lifeless eyes forever._

_His father drew back his hand and the image pulled outward from a close up of Dean's face to one of his entire body._

_He was burned, every inch of him scorched. Head to toe, every piece covered in either areas of crimson blistered or blackened skin. _

_From there the images traveled to their father seated on the edge of a bed, head bowed, and words falling from his mouth in barely a chanted whisper. _

"_Take care of him Mary. Do what I couldn't. Take care of our son."_

Sam gasped so sharply his chest ached for several heartbeat in its wake. The striking images departed and he was left with only the items that filled the living room before his eyes.

"Oh god!" The words flew out through his lips with a nauseous edge to it.

This had not been a dream. This was not a creation of his emotions and fears. This was a warning, a truthful future chain of events.

Dean had been severely burned.

And Sam and his father hadn't been able to save him.

It looked as if they had been forced to watch him die.

For the first time that he could remember he closed his eyes again and begged the vision to return. He wanted more details, not for the torture it would bring to his heart but so maybe he could find what had led them to that place and find a way to use the information to stop it from happening anywhere else besides inside his own head. There had to be clues embedded in the images, he just had to find them.

There had to be some shred of information that he could use to spare Dean's life. There was still time, their father had been in the vision and he wasn't due for several days.

There was still time. Time to change the outcome.

Sam finally released his vice grip on the edges of the doorframe and moved into the living room. He dropped down roughly onto the couch. He was grateful for the moment by himself. He needed to decide whether to tell Dean about the vision or not. A nagging piece of him wanted to, to warn his brother of the danger. The stronger part suggested that he could, at least for the moment, handle it on his own. Dean knew as well as he did that every time one of these visions had struck they had always at the very least begun to play out exactly how he saw them. How was he supposed to tell his brother that he had seen him die and that even their father wasn't able to stop it? In a strange way the news that their father hadn't been able to save him most likely would have been more of a blow to his older brother than the part about his death. Somehow Sam could easily see the heartbreak that the detail about their father would deliver to Dean.

Sam flung his head against the back of the couch and forcefully blew out a dense breath. He would keep the vision to himself for now. The knowledge that Dean would consider him holding the information back a lie dug into Sam, but his heart couldn't take the imagined look on his brother's face hearing the details of the future Sam had foreseen.

He pushed his once again weary body off the couch and looked to the other side of the living room. The door to his bedroom stood wide open and the end of the bed was visible. Dean wasn't asleep in that room as he had hoped. Perhaps hunger had awoken him too so Sam moved around the end of the sofa to head in the direction of the kitchen. Passing by the window to the left of the front door Sam caught something out of the corner of his eye and stepped back to look.

Dean was seated on the top of the porch steps sticking his fingertips in a glass of water and sprinkling the moisture on his arms and neck. Sam allowed himself a grin. Dean's eyes were closed, his head tilted back slightly, and by the expression on his face the water was providing great relief from his burns.

Sam stepped to the door and opened it.

"Is this one of those private moments I shouldn't be witnessing?" he inquired.

"Sammy, right now I could care less who sees me. Let them enjoy the view," came his brother's return.

"Yeah, cuz chicks dig the whole bright red thing right?" Sam responded and took a seat on the step beside his brother.

"Don't remind me. I'm depressed enough. I'm at a lake where in a few hours hot college girls will be sunbathing in very small bikinis and it looks like I've been benched out of the game."

"Sorry, man."

"Next time maybe."

"Yeah maybe. You hungry? We didn't eat last night you know?"

"I guess we didn't. Sorry about that," Dean replied quietly after a moment of searching his memory.

"Breakfast it is then."

"You can go ahead. I'm not really hungry."

"You're not hungry? Serious?"

"Serious Sam."

"We haven't eaten in like what fifteen hours. How can you not be hungry? You're always hungry. I don't think I've _ever_ seen you turn down free food."

"First for everythin' I guess. Water probably filled me up," Dean responded, briefly holding up the glass in his hand. Sam wanted to push further but knew it wouldn't get him anywhere so he looked away from Dean and out over the lake in the early morning sunlight. The water was a cool blue and the sky was crystal clear. It was going to be a gorgeous summer day. Sam only wished he didn't know what he knew so it would be just that, just another day. But it wasn't. If he wasn't able to unscramble the puzzle of his vision this would be one of the last day's his brother would be with him.

"Electronics," Dean's voice cut into Sam's thought abruptly.

"What?"

"You asked if I ever thought about going to school. For a while I thought it might be kinda cool to learn more about electronics. I like taking stuff apart and rebuilding it."

"You're good at it that's for sure. When we were kids anything Dad and I broke you were always able to fix."

"You two sure did have a knack for breaking stuff too. Isn't it supposed to be summer?" Dean inquired.

"It's June Dean. This is summer."

"Sure the hell doesn't feel like it." Sam turned his gaze away from the lake over at his brother. Dean's eyes were closed, his chin tucked to his chest, and his body trembled ever so slightly.

"You alright?"

"Fine. It's just damn cold for June," Dean responded, a shiver shaking his voice faintly. Sam opened his mouth to reply with concern, but Dean stood up suddenly, chasing away the words.

"Out here it's the Artic and inside it's the Bahamas. Can't win! But I guess I'm in a tropical sort of mood right now. I'm headin' in," Dean announced and disappeared inside before Sam could even speak.

Turning back to look out into the blue sky Sam's heart sunk. It had taken everything he had not to tell his brother about the vision. It hurt but the alternative would have been agony.

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John Winchester steered the truck into the right turn off Route 7. The private road to the log cabin on the lake wasn't paved and gravel flew up from under the wheels in a small storm when he didn't reduce his speed any for the change in surfaces. He knew the road now. He'd been down along a short piece of it in the truck a only few hours before. That time he had parked the vehicle off to the side in the opening to a wooded path and left it behind to continue armed and on foot. Old habits died hard and he had used the cover of night to scout out and secure the property and check on Dean and Sam. He'd managed to come and go undetected, even stealing a glimpse inside at his sleeping sons. It wasn't necessary for them to know he felt the need to do the checks personally. Dean would have been perhaps slightly taking aback but would have quickly moved on. Sam, on the other hand, would have taken it personally as insult to ability and trust. A chuckle escaped him as the realization came. If he'd been on the other end of the situation he would have mirrored Sam's reaction, tunnel vision at its best. Either way it was a mute point since they would never know. There was no reason for them to. He was sure they'd be surprised enough just to see him this morning. Only shortly after hanging up the phone from telling his sons he'd be in Hunter's Crossing in two days the situation that had delayed him had been abruptly resolved and he had taken off on the highway, northbound.

And now hundreds of miles later he was mere seconds from being reunited with his boys.

_To Be Continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Hunter's Crossing

Author: Signs of Sun

Note: Holy busy! Sorry about the gap in postings there. Been straight out workin'.

**Two for one deal today! **I went to edit and proof this chapter and realized it looked awful long. At first I just tried to edit stuff out, but eventually I decided it would just have to be two chapters instead. So you get two chapters posted at one time! Aren't you excited? LOL! Now I just have to remember to renumber all the later chapters or all I'll accomplish is confusing everyone.

**Anyway, here's Chapters 6 AND 7!**

**Thanks for reading!**

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_Hunter's Crossing_

_Chapter 6_

The crunch of tires on gravel jerked Sam's attention away from the calm water of the lake over to the road. The narrow private drive was lined with densely packed woods and the sound of a vehicle approaching lasted a few more seconds before Sam caught sight of the familiar black truck.

"Couldn't be?" he whispered, rising from his seat on the steps. Their father wasn't due for two days yet. John Winchester was rarely earlier, unless of course it was for the deliberate element of surprise. But as the truck rolled to a stop directly behind the Impala's bumper Sam could see that it was in fact their father.

"Hey Sam!" his father called over through the open driver's side window.

"Dad? _Dad! _What are the hell you doing here?" Sam called out, jogging down the stairs as John climbed from the cab of his vehicle. The chuckle that escaped the eldest Winchester was loud enough for Sam to catch from a few feet away.

"Sorry. I didn't mean it _quite_ like that."

"Surprise! I'm here!" his father sang out with a grin then snatched his son into a dramatic swaying bear hug. The action took Sam off guard, not his father's normal M.O.. The thought occurred to the youngest Winchester as his father was crushing every last ounce of oxygen from him that John Winchester could be kind of a ham if he wanted to be. But Sam was dead certain that he shouldn't let that tidbit of intel get out. It really wasn't something the great John Winchester would want spread around the supernatural hunting community. There was a reputation to maintain after all. But it did explain a few things about his brother though. The goof ball that was Dean had been inherited from some long forgotten and sedated part of their father. There had been only a handful of times that Sam had witnessed it, but when it had come out, when John had allowed it out or when it escaped briefly, it was obliviously a natural part of him. Sam suspected it was a fleeting glimpse into the person John Winchester had been before hunting evil consumed his life.

"Dad."

"Yes, son?" John replied, a grin in his voice, and stopped their silly swaying from side to side, but maintained the vicelike embrace.

"I…can't …breath," Sam sputtered.

"You were always kind of high maintenance," his father responded, releasing him and stepping back.

"Yeah, that whole needing oxygen to survive thing makes me real demanding, doesn't it?" Sam teased out.

"It's good to see you, Sammy."

"You too Dad," Sam replied softly.

"I brought coffee," John commented, turned back to the open drivers side of the truck, and leaned into its cab. When he reappeared he produced the peace offering, three large cups stuffed into a cardboard beverage carrier. To the Winchester men the coffee inside was as good as gold. It had rescued them on many a long night of hunting, especially since not every evil being was always on time.

"Oh coffee. _Sweet glorious _coffee. I'll take that. Hand it over."

"I got one for your brother too. It ain't exactly great so he better at least get it while it's hot," John said, passing one of the coffees to his son.

"I'll take that one too," Sam responded eagerly holding out his unoccupied left hand.

"It's for Dean," John replied, withholding the cup from his son's outstretched hand.

"I seriously doubt that Dean's going to be interested in anything in the _hot _department about now." This prompted John to squint in confusion at his youngest son.

"Since when does Dean turn down coffee? Or anything in the _hot_ department for that matter?"

"Well, that's kind of a long story," Sam replied taking a extended savory sip from his cup. The time it took was too great for his impatient father and John was about to request he report the entire tale but the squeak of the cabin's screen door opening drew his attention away from Sam. Dean had stepped out on to the porch and was making his way sluggishly down the steps, clad only in boots and a very faded and ragged pair of jeans. He was bare chested and John could immediately surmise why. Both of Dean's arms sported a shocking red color. The right side of his neck was a close shade, only slightly less intense. A shirt would have been torture to put on, much less wear for any extended length of time.

"Sam, why does your brother look like he fell asleep down there on the dock for about a week?" John inquired, glancing briefly from his eldest to his youngest.

"Fire. He got a little too up close and personal with some," Sam answered in between needy sips of his coffee.

"_Excuse me_?" he snapped, looking over at Sam. The boy didn't respond though and quite possibly hadn't even heard what his dad had said. He was deaf to the world temporarily, lost in a caffeine induced bliss.

"Hey Dad!" Dean interjected as he arrived at the pair. There was a brief flash of a smile given to his father, but his expression fell quickly back to discomfort.

"What the hell happened to you? Your brother was rambling something about fire."

"Yeah I sorta caught on fire. Not as bad as it looks. My shirt, however, didn't make it. _Very tragic._"

"You caught on fire? Jesus, Dean, you have to be more careful."

"What?"

"You gotta pay better attention. You can't let stuff like that happen. You've got a job to do and it doesn't sound like you're very prepared."

"You think I _let_ myself catch on fire? You're kidding me, right?"

"Clearly you weren't prepared or it wouldn't have happened," John stated matter of factly. Dean opened his mouth to reply, but the words were sluggish reaching his lips. Sam jumped in before Dean's voice arrived.

"Dad, it wasn't his fault. This thing, this spirit, caught me off guard and knocked me down a flight of stairs. Dean was helping me when it attacked again. And that's how Dean got burnt." John looked at him for a silent second before turning his attention to his eldest son.

"Where exactly were you when your brother got attacked by the thing?" he inquired of Dean, accusation thick in his voice. The expression on Dean's face dropped from frustration and disbelief to one that combined the frustration with sadness. Sam glanced his way and caught it. He also witnessed the struggle his brother was fighting mentally. Sam had seen it on occasion, certainly not often though. Dean was weighing one set of emotions against another, deciding whether to fight back against his father or to concede to the verbal lashing obediently.

"Well, I'm waiting Dean."

"Dad, I went ahead an…"

"I'm asking your brother, Sam."

"It's real nice to see you too Dad!" Dean snapped out loudly.

"Don't give me attitude."

"The thing came out of nowhere and attacked both of us. We didn't have a hell of a lot of time to react. I was prepared. I didn't go in there unarmed. I…."

"This thing that attacked you, it's still out there?"

"Yeah. We'll get it though."

"If it's still out there you weren't prepared and you didn't do your job."

"You know what…"

"What?"

"Nothin'."

"_What Dean_?"

"Can we take this conversation inside? This sun's a bitch!" Dean stated and started back towards the house. The discomfort had grown and he was unable to keep it from being fully displayed on his face.

"We're going to finish this discussion later you know!" John called out after him sternly.

"Looking forward to it!" Dean threw back.

"He didn't get much sleep last night," Sam offered quietly as his father headed towards the house.

"Sleep or no sleep. Attitude..._disrespect_…is unacceptable. Dean knows better."

"I don't know if you noticed, but we're adults now," Sam commented, catching up to him at the top of the steps

"Believe me I noticed."

Sam trailed his father through the door into the living room. John set the beverage carrier down on the end table and pulled the two remaining cups out, carrying one in each hand.

"A cabin huh?" he commented, glancing around.

"Yeah tell me about it. I wonder what his actual house looks like?"

"Trust me it makes this place look about as big as a hall closet. I know. I've seen it."

"Is that where you did the job for this guy who owns the house?"

"Yeah. He lives down in New York. Speaking of jobs. Mind telling me just exactly what happened that deep fried your brother?"

"Uh...yeah…_that_."

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Dean pressed the sweaty side of the glass in his hand up against his right cheek and let a contented whispered _yes _escape past his lips. He had refilled it to top with a combination of cold water and crushed ice and the intense coolness contacting his skin verged on orgasmic. Where the outdoors had been first too chilly then too sunny the house was oppressively balmy and Dean had decided there was no straight out winning. A round about method to comfort would need to be found. The icy glass of water was a start since he hadn't come up with the rest. Yet, anyway. It would come to him. It always did.

"You're supposed to drink from the glass not try to it in soak through your pores," Sam commented, trailing into the room just behind his father.

"Dude, lay off. It's all part of my bigger plan."

"Your plan for what exactly?" Sam chuckled out. Dean was leaned back against the edge of the sink and Sam plopped down on one of the stools across the island from him. The words of the comment were there, but the tone had been too flat. Dean thought at first his brother looked tired, but a second glance revealed distraction. The gears in Sam's head were grinding away at something he could tell, but their father was in the room and there were some conversations that stayed between brothers. He'd get Sammy talking later.

Their father stopped at the edge of the island in the center of the kitchen and held out the coffee grasped in his left hand in Dean's direction.

"No. I'm good," Dean replied, finally removing the glass from its position against his face. John pivoted around, leaned across the island, and delivered the large cup smack in front of Sam.

"Told ya, but, no, nobody listens to Sam," the youngest Winchester mumbled out. But his half joking half serious grumblings were silenced when he picked up the coffee and took the first sip. John turned back around, facing Dean, and leaned up against the island's countertop.

"Your brother told me what went down. And…"

"And?"

"It sounds like we have research to do."

"Right. Right research. History of the house?"

"Yep."

"Sam, did you notice those headstones last night?" Dean asked after a beat of tense silence.

"What about 'em?"

"A lot of them. Actually most of them had the same date of death, November 22, 1934."

"Same as Lucas Weller."

"Right. Something must have happened here on that date. Something took a lot of lives."

"Sounds like a good place to start," Dean stated and took a long sip from his water.

"That and the history of that house should give us something," John responded confidently. Dean swallowed down a oversized gulp of liquid and replied.

"I'm on that. I'll take a drive back over there as well as asking around with the locals. See if anybody knows something useful."

"No. You won't."

"Why not?"

"Because Sam and I will take care of it. You stay here and get some R&R. I need you ready when the time comes."

"What happened to greater manpower, greater results?"

"It was replaced with more rest, less margin for error."

"Come on."

"You're staying here Dean. That's final. We'll be back in a little while," John replied. He gestured with his left hand for Sam to get moving then exited the room. Sam rose from the stool, offered a brief understanding look to Dean, and followed their father into the living room.

A few short moments later the sound of the front door closing arrived.

Dean straightened up from leaning against the edge of the kitchen sink and looked out the window. Taking another long drink he watched Sam climb into the passenger seat of the truck.

"Like hell I'm stayin' here!" Dean stated as he watched the black truck reverse away from the Impala then swing around to speed off down the road. Once it was out of sight he headed for the bedroom. His black and red shirt lay thrown over his duffle bag and Dean scooped it up. Standing in front of the mirror he shook out the shirt hoping it might cure at least one or two of the numerous wrinkles, but the action was rather pointless he knew and it served more as a delay from having to put the shirt on. But it had to put done since walking around town shirtless and handsome would most definitely draw attention. Not necessarily all of it unwanted attention, but attention nonetheless. Gingerly he pulled the shirt on and buttoned it up. The fabric against his burnt skin might as well have been sandpaper and Dean squeezed his eyes closed and focused on breathing for a moment. The chanted thought that he would get used to it and this was doable was forcefully marched back and forth from one side of his mind to the other. There was no way he was being sidelined from this job. He'd find the son of a bitch that did this and see how it liked being flame broiled. Turn around was fair play.

"Sorry Dad," he whispered and headed out.

The short drive in the Impala back to Greenwood Cemetery was spent fidgeting in the drivers seat, searching from some miniscule level of comfort. The previous day had been a perfect seventy five degrees, its follower offered a sweltering dry heat. Even with both front windows rolled down so they were flush with the frame there was no air in the car. By the time Dean parked and cut the engine wide streams of sweat trickled down along his skin. He used the cuff of his shirt sleeve to swipe away the salty moisture from his forehead and cheeks, but they were immediately wet again. He shifted his gaze from the cemetery laid out before him to the rear view mirror. The reflection of himself that met his eyes told the story. The encounter with the fire, the lack of quality sleep, and the heat had taken a toll. Even more frustrating though was how scarlet the skin on the right side of his neck was. As well as the slightly lighter red that covered the far right side of his cheek all the way back to his ear. He realized that going into town and subtly interrogating the locals was probably out. His burns would raise questions and the last thing they needed was people digging too deep. He decided though he could at least check out the house and the surrounding property. With that thought he flung open the drivers side door and dragged himself out of the car.

The walk along the path up the hillside into the cemetery left him trudging forward by the time he reached the top. As he headed northeast, cutting through the rows of headstones towards the house, he scanned the dates again. On average three out of every four had the same date: November 22, 1934. There was no doubt in his mind that something deeply evil had happened in this town all those years ago. And there was a growing need inside his gut to find out what. There was a thought gnawing away at him, alerting him that something had returned here, something dark and unfriendly.

"So much for that idea," he stated to himself, stopping as the house came into view. He surveyed the property slowly. Two fire trucks and a sheriff's squad stood parked at the top of the long driveway. Firefighters filtered in and out of the building and two police officers wandered the yard and the edge of the woods. The fire was out, but had claimed a fair section of the house's first floor. FD was probably there ensuring there were no hidden dangers remaining, normal follow up procedure after the flames were out. And the officers were most likely looking for signs of anyone that may have been there. Dean realized the lighter he had been carrying had been left behind. So had been one of their flashlights. Police and fire probably had figured out that the fire had been set and were searching for evidence to identify the persons. It sealed the reality that with his burns there was no way he could go scouting for information and it was probably wise not to even be seen around town until the lovely shade of red he was wearing had faded considerably.

After watching for another few seconds he turned around and headed back through the maze of graves. He spotted the headstone they had sought out the night before and stopped at it. Dean's gaze studied the stone.

"_Lucas Mathew Weller, October 24 1902-November 22 1934, A soul this world should have been blessed with longer. You washed away the darkness. And fought the good fight."_

The words struck Dean just as strongly the second time round. He couldn't place it exactly but he felt connected to this man somehow, more than any other name on a headstone he'd ever come across in his days of hunting, and there had been many. The essence of the epitaph felt not only etched into the stone in front of his eyes but into his own soul too.

"_You washed away the darkness. And fought the good fight."_

Those words, simply and few, summed up what it was all for, what it all came down to.

Dean's gaze drifted to the left at the headstone that stood invasively close to Lucas'. Something, exhaustion or Sam's moodiness, had distracted him enough the night before that he hadn't registered the name on the stone.

_Emma Lynn Weller, July 16 1905-May 23 1934._

The two best guesses that presented themselves in Dean's brain were that Emma had either been Lucas' wife or sister. Lucas had died that same day that most of the graveyards occupants had so whatever evil had touched this town had taken him too. But Emma Lynn had passed before it all happened which meant Lucas had suffered her loss if they had been close. Or, even possibly, if they weren't close Lucas had somehow played a role in her death.

Dean tilted his head back to the baking sun rapidly working its way to its peak in the sky. Again he used his right shirt sleeve to dab at the rivers of sweat flowing down over the skin of his face and neck. He managed to clean some of it away before it trickled under the line of his shirt collar. The salty moisture on the skin of his severely burnt arms was not helping his search for some level of comfort. He squinted up at the bright rays and decided it was time to move on.

"I hope you found some light Lucas Mathew Weller," Dean whispered and in the next breath he was off down the path away from the headstone.

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"That book would be easier to read if you opened the cover Sam," John whispered from his seat across the library's back table. Sam jerked his gaze from the closed book in front of him up to his father. He'd set it down on the table and his mind had wandered, eventually making loops of thought that ended where they began. The initial shock of seeing his father had washed away and reality had settled in. The vision he had had of Dean played endlessly in his memory. And even harder was the knowledge that the time he hoped he had in which to find a solution had been stolen from him. There had been the two days he thought he had because his father had been in the vision and wasn't due for a while. But now his father was sitting directly across from him and that meant Dean's time was short. The vision was a ticking time bomb.

"Sam?"

"Huh?"

"You with me?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Just…uh…working on a theory."

"Care to share?"

"Still putting it together. Still has holes, but I'm working on it."

John nodded but didn't immediately take his gaze from his son. Instead he studied him for a few breaths. Sam stared back, making a tired effort at covering his concern. Somewhere in those circles of thought he had lost track of whether he had chosen to tell his father about the premonition or not. He'd have to search for the decision again. That was if he had even had it in his grasp in the first place.

"You'll let me know?"

"Yeah. I'll let you know."

The words were code and had been for as long as Sam could remember. His father had picked up that something besides the current job was tumbling around inside Sam's head. And the words, "You'll let me know?", were a disguised offer that if his son needed to talk he was all ears. John accepted Sam's response, at least for the moment, and returned to scanning through the pages of the town's log. Sam flipped open the cover of the one that sat in front of him and started skimming the entries.

"Got it! Take a look," his father's voice broke the silence with a few minutes later.

"232 Langley Road. Property owned by Edwin Tymson," he continued when Sam looked up. John slid the book across the surface of the table, turning it so Sam could see the entry he indicated with his finger. Sam read it over and looked up.

"So now we just need to see what we can dig up on Edwin."

"I'll go see what I can find. Keep looking through these in case there's anything else useful. Maybe something else he owned," John instructed, pushing back his chair and standing.

"Okay," Sam simply replied and returning to scrutinizing the worn pages in front of him. It was quiet for less than a minute before his cell began ringing. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the display. He returned his gaze to the book while he flipped open the phone and answered.

"Hey!"

"Hey! Anything?" Dean's voice asked.

"Yeah. We've got a name of who owned the property. Not much else yet."

"Well, that's something I guess."

"Apparently the library closes early in the summer though so we'll be heading back out soon."

"Exactly why I called. It's lunch time and I'm starving. On the way back stop and get some steaks."

"You wouldn't even consider eating the breakfast I offered to make earlier now you want steaks."

"What can I say my stomach has a mind of its own."

"Alright. You got it! I'm starving too. Dad practically shoved me out the door. I never got to eat anything."

"Yeah I think that if Dad didn't have a plate set in front of him once in awhile he'd forget he is supposed to eat."

Sam let out a chuckle, earned by the truth in Dean's words.

"Talk to you later," he replied.

"Oh Sam. You still there?"

"Yeah."

"And get beer."

"Dean, get off you ass and look in the refrigerator for crying out loud. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised."

"Let me guess there's designer beer in there?"

"_Designer beer_?"

"Yeah, ya know the good….never mind."

"Okay."

"Later!"

"Later!"

"Designer beer?" John asked with raised eyebrows, arriving back at the table.

"Don't ask. It's …it's a Deanism."

"Sounds like a long story."

"Definitely. He wants us to stop and pick up steaks." John nodded that he heard and studied the papers in his hand.

"What are those?"

"I found a little on our Mr. Tymson. All I could photocopy before I was informed by the librarian that we've been kicked out."

"I can research online when we get back and look over that stuff."

"Let's head out," John instructed, spotting the librarian, sporting an impatient expression, making her way to their table. Sam trailed his father back through the small building and out into the sunlight. They had been the last visitors to the library and as Sam walked down the steps he could hear the staff member locking the door at their backs. She hadn't wasted a second, but it was understandable. It was a gorgeous day, much like the day before, not too warm not to cold. The little old lady had probably wanted to get outside. That thought triggered his thoughts back to Dean. There had been a smile on his brother's face when he had suggested that maybe after their job here was done they could hang out for a few days. It had only been recently that Sam realized something. The times when Dean had suggested a little "shore leave" or a day off Sam had always redirected him back to the job at hand. For some reason it had taken almost a year to realize that for Dean to request it was different than if he himself had. The whole time they'd been back together this had been a mission for Sam, something to put all efforts into, resolve, and then return to living life. But it was different for Dean. For Dean this was living life and his brother's small request for a day off, hell even a few hours off, was the same as someone working a nine to five job requesting a vacation day. Like everyone Dean deserved a break once in a while. Sam simply hadn't looked at it from that perspective. For him, the plan had always been to plow through the mission nonstop. There would be time for rest when it was done. But hunting was Dean's life, not just a single mission, and he'd been without much of a break the entire time they'd been riding together.

Dean deserved a lot more than he got and Sam hoped there would be a chance to offer it to his big brother.

"Wanna drive?" John asked and held out the keys to his son.

"You're going to let me drive your truck?"

"Sure. Sides I drove all last night. I'm kinda beat." Sam instantly snatched the keys and climbed into the drivers seat. His father settled into the other side and leaned his head against the window. As Sam was checking that he was clear to pull out he noticed his father had his eyes closed.

The downtown of Hunter's Crossing wasn't particularly large and Sam pulled into the busy parking lot of the Shaw's supermarket that stood only three buildings down the street from the library.

"I'm going to grab the food," he stated as he parked the truck and opened the drivers side door. He left the engine running so his father could snooze in air conditioned comfort.

"I'll be here," John mumbled, shifting to a slouched position against the passenger side door.

Sam left the truck and his father behind and joined the herd of shoppers, many of which were easily identified as tourists. Their out of state accents gave them away instantly. That was a residual benefit of crisscrossing the country, he could tell a Michigander from a Kentuckian and a Minnesotan from a Wisconsiner and a Mainer from a Massachussettsite without blinking an eye The store was packed and Sam rushed to gather what they needed. He had never been a lover of crowds. Something he felt came from a level of sensory overload he experienced while in the middle of them. He'd had wondered on many an occasion but probably would never know for sure if that was because he just naturally was uncomfortable around so many people all at once or if it had been learned. Learned from growing up having the constant reminder that you always have to be acutely aware of what and who was around you, to be on guard at all times. The cashier giving him his total broke him free of his pondering and he paid for the groceries with just a simple thank you. Less than two minutes later he was back in the truck, pulling out of the parking spot. His father had opened his eyes briefly, checking that it was in fact Sam that had arrived and not something else then had returned to his rest.

So Sam drove for a silent minute before finally committing to the decision that this was the most privacy they would get.

"Dad," he said quietly.

"Yeah Sam," his father mumbled back.

"I think I need to tell you something."

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like what you're about to say?" John inquired quietly, groggily.

"Because you're not. Hell I don't."

"I guess we should get it over with then. Put both of us out of our misery. What is it Sammy?"

"I had a vision."

"About the demon?" John inquired. His eyes opened and he straightening up in the seat.

"No, actually…it was about Dean."

"Dean?"

"Yeah."

"What did you see?" Sam suddenly couldn't get a good enough hold around the words to force them out of his mouth. He stared at the road ahead and a tense silence gripped the interior of the truck.

"Sam, what did you see?" John asked with increased gentleness.

"He was burned. Really burned."

"So you had the vision before what happened last night then."

"No. I had it this morning. Just after I woke up."

"Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure you were awake Sam?"

"I was awake as I am right now. Dad, Dean's in danger. I mean it. Real trouble."

"Now wait a minute son. Didn't you tell me that these visions of yours were linked to the demon?"

"Usually they are. I don't know. Maybe they're growing, ya know, expanding to include other stuff."

"Okay, Sammy, tell me exactly what you saw. Don't leave anything out no matter how insignificant it seems."

"There was…" Sam began to reply but the ringing of his cell cut his speaking short Leaving one hand on the wheel he tugged the phone from his pocket and put it to his ear.

"Hey!" he said, knowing it had to be Dean.

"Dude, what's taking you guys so long with those steaks."

"On the way back right now. It's only been like ten minutes Dean."

"Well, I'm starting the grill so it'll be ready when you guys finally decide to show up."

"The grill?"

"There is this kick ass grill out in the back yard of this place. We're going to eat like kings tonight Sammy boy."

"No Dean. Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't start the grill. Whatever you do, Dean, do not light it."

"Why?"

"Just please Dean wait until we get there. Dad or I will do it. Promise me."

"I think it'll be okay Sam. I think I can operate a grill without burning down the back yard and char broiling all the little squirrels in the neighborhood. Now hurry up with my steaks."

"Dean, don't…!" Sam insisted, but he realized that the call had been disconnected already.

"No no no no! Dammit Dean!" Sam cursed out in a panic and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. He frantically scrolled through the numbers in memory on his cell and selected his brother's.

"Pick up the phone Dean!" Sam grumbled, simultaneously careening the truck into a left turn. By the time he straightened out a little in the lane Dean's cell had rung three times. After the fourth voice mail would pick up.

"Answer the phone Dean!" Sam demanded out into the air. The voice mail message started to play and Sam ended the call. He hit the button immediately to redial the number. The truck veered a little left over the yellow line as Sam glanced down at the display and John held out his hand, requesting the phone be handed over to him. Sam complied and returned his right hand to the steering wheel. John put the phone to his ear and listened to it ringing, but again the voice mail picked up.

"Dean, this is your father. The grill is off limits to you. When I get there I better not see you within twenty feet of the thing. And that's an order!" he commanded calmly to his son's voicemail and then flipped the phone closed. Sam executed the right turn onto the private drive that lead to the cabin rather wildly, forcing his father to brace himself with an outstretched hand against the dashboard.

"Take it easy. He'll be fine," John offered quietly.

_To Be Continued…_


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Hunter's Crossing

Author: Signs of Sun

Note: Holy busy! Sorry about the gap in postings there. Been straight out workin'.

**Two for one deal today! **I went to edit and proof chapter 6 and realized it looked awful long. At first I just tried to edit stuff out, but eventually I decided it would just have to be two chapters instead. So you get two chapters posted at one time! Aren't you excited? LOL! Now I just have to remember to renumber all the later chapters or all I'll accomplish is confusing everyone.

**Anyway, here's Chapters 6 AND 7!**

**Thanks for reading!**

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_Hunter's Crossing_

_Chapter 7_

Dean lifted the lid of the grill and inspected it more closely. It was a gas grill, but a model that still needed a match to ignite. He'd have to search for both a book of matches and some briquettes. A small shed stood off to the corner of the backyard and made his way over to it. Finding it unlocked he investigated inside, locating both matches and charcoal. He stuffed the matchbook into his right shirt pocket and picked up the full bag of briquettes and headed out of the shed. Just a few feet from the grill he caught something, a shadow, out of the corner of his eye, moving off to his left. The corner of the house was only a few feet away and he turned his head to look just as the impact came. The force triggered his right hand to release its grip on the bag and it dropped to the ground to his right. His body flew to the left and roughly landed in the grass. The second impact came as he had begun to fight back. The weight of a body slammed down on top of him and the breath abandoned him for a few seconds. Finally he was motionless, pinned down to the earth, and was able to get a good look at his attacker.

"Lost your mind Sam or just glad to see me?" Dean spat out, attempting to cover the pain filled grunt that he had let out.

"Sorry, didn't mean to tackle you quite that hard."

"Before we get into the details of your new found upper body strength any chance you could get the hell off of me?"

"Oh yeah sorry Dean," Sam uttered apologetically and scrambled to his feet. Dean remained flat on his back in the grass for a few seconds before even attempting to sit up. The skin on his arms burned intensely. The impact with both the ground and his brother had ignited every nerve ending into a fiery panic and Dean had to clench both hands into tight fists to even gain some semblance of control over the pain. His let his eyelids slide closed and he forced a deep inhale and exhale two times over.

"Didn't hurt you, did I?" Sam's voice inquired, worry thick in his tone.

"Nope! Nope!" Dean responded, opening his eyes and instantly sitting up. The new wave of pain that struck him stalled his progress for a heartbeat and Sam offered an outstretched hand.

"Yeah you better help me up since I'm down here cuz of you," Dean stated, faking annoyance, and accepted the hand in standing up.

"Dean I…uh..it's just…sorry about that."

"First, care to tell me why you just body slammed me? And, second, you got my steaks right?"

"Yes, Dean, I got your steaks."

"Okay that takes care of number two. What about number one?"

"Well, I was just thinking that I could make the steaks."

"Did it ever occur to you to, oh I don't know, ask? Or is Dad rubbing off on you and now you're Mr. Act First, Ask Questions Later?"

"I just...I wanted to surprise you was all."

"Well I'd say you accomplished that. You freakin'…psycho."

"I thought it might be cool if I grilled the steaks and you and Dad could hang out on the porch and try some of that designer beer, yeah that was what I was thinking. Yeah that was my...well…that was the plan."

"That was your plan huh?"

"Yes. Yes. It was." Dean immediately identified his brother's response as a lie. There was a misstep, a stumbling, in the logic he presented. One that was uncharacteristic of his intelligence even if it had been made up on the spot. But the dead giveaway was the way Sam shifted his weight from one foot to the other and tilted his head to the right just faintly when he spoke. He'd done it since he was just a kid. Sam never seemed to be aware that he did it and Dean never let on he noticed the pattern.

Dean managed to reign in the frown that began to rise to the surface and spread in his expression. It morphed into a scowl by the time it was truly visible. If there was one thing he loathed it was whenever his little brother felt the need to lie to him. It signified a lack of trust and Dean despised the thought that Sam believed he couldn't trust him. Dean opened his mouth to call Sam on the lie his last words had been, but never even spoke the first syllable because their father appeared, turning the corner around of the house into the back yard. So instead of the words he wanted to speak Dean found some less private ones.

"Okay, Sammy. She's all yours!" Dean proclaimed, gesturing his left hand towards the grill. Next he pointed to the bag he'd dropped. It lay on its side in the grass, abandoned.

"There's the charcoal!" he continued. Then spent a breath digging into his shirt pocket and producing the item there.

"And here's the matches. Knock yourself out Chef Boy!" he snapped and held out the matchbook.

"Dean I didn't…."

"You said you wanted to be the chef. Here, go chef!" Dean stated, grabbing Sam's hand and slapping the matches into his palm.

"I didn't mean to piss you off. I just wanted…" Sam began but Dean turned and started walking towards the back door of the house. If Sam was going to lie to his face then he wasn't sticking around for the lame excuses.

"But Dean!" Sam called out after him.

"Let him go son," John interjected, arriving at his youngest's side. Dean continued straight into the house without offering anything additional. He was exhausted and sweaty and thirsty and annoyed. The only two things he was up for were a ice cold shower and a quick nap in the hammock he'd seen strung up in the shade out back. That was if he could stay awake to make it to the hammock, otherwise he'd settle for the incredibly comfortable queen size bed. By that time Sam, master chef he thought he was, would have finished making lunch.

Dean passed through his bedroom and entered the private bath on the other side, shutting the door at his back. The room was fair sized but had no windows so he flipped on the light and the overhead fan. He grabbed a large towel from the cabinet and set it on the edge of the bathtub. Standing in front of the mirror he removed the button down shirt, peeling it from his sweaty skin delicately, and took a look at his reflection. The crimson hue of his arms and neck had not faded at all and he had two blisters forming, one on his right shoulder and the other slightly lower down on his arm. He wondered whether the shower was such a good idea, certainly the coolness would be a relief, but the water pelting down on those blisters and his damaged skin might not be so pleasant. In the midst of pondering whether it was worth it out not his own body tore his attention away from the decision.

Dean's breath caught in his throat as his heart suddenly added an extra beat to it sequence. Instantly nausea gripped him and he was on his knees depositing the contents of his stomach into the toilet. When he was finished he flushed it away and lowered himself to a sitting position on the cool floor, his back rested against the tub. The nausea had been expelled, but sheer exhaustion had taken its place. He'd have to rest a few minutes before pursuing the shower idea any further. Dean slouched further down against the side of the tub and his head found the towel he had placed there.

He closed his eyes and rested.

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The air around him pressed heavily down on every fiber of his being and Dean pushed against its weight to open his eyes. The sensation of sleep clung to him both mentally and physically. He'd only intended to rest for a moment, but somehow he knew a moment had turned into many. Straightening up evidenced this further. His upper back ached and his neck was stiff and reluctant to move pain free. Sluggishly though he made his way to his feet. Lightheadness lurked on the fringes of physical sensation and he tried to cure it with deep breaths, but the heavy stuffy air in the windowless room made it difficult. He grasped onto the doorknob and steadied himself, letting his eyes close for a few quick heartbeat. He pulled open the door in the hope it would replenish the air in the bathroom then turned towards the sink. Bracing one hand on each side of the its countertop Dean opened his eyes. His gaze landed on the faucet and he reached over with his right hand to turn on the cold water. Then used both hands to splash a handful on his face and waited for it to soak in.

Only an instant later though the refreshing moisture had evaporated and the brief relief it had provided had vanished along with it. Suddenly his breath was departing him too. Even a single deep inhale was a struggle. Trying not to panic Dean shifted his gaze and was met with his own reflection in the mirror. In the background the bathroom door stood open and the mirror provided a partial view of the bedroom beyond. For the next shallow inhale Dean stared at the image there then spun around to confirm that what he'd seen was real and not just a distortion that existed only in the mirror.

The view that met his eyes was the same one though.

A room on fire.

The bedroom was rapidly being devoured by hungry flames. Dean started to glance back over his shoulder before his memory kicked in reminded him that the bathroom was windowless. His only chance at escape was a running one, a mad dash through the burning room. Moving quickly he grabbed the large towel he used as a pillow earlier and turned on the water in the tub. After thoroughly soaking the entire towel in cold water he cut the stream off and draped the towel over the top of his head so it hung down over his upper back, shoulders, and the top of his arms. He inhaled as deeply as the thick air would allow, held his breath, and flew out of the bathroom, ran dead center through the bedroom, and into the living room. He stopped abruptly at the end of the couch, halted by what he found there. His brother and father had just entered the room from the kitchen. Both were carrying utensils and plates, acting perfectly routine.

"Food's just about rea…," Sam began to say, but let it trail off and stared at Dean. Dean stared back for a few seconds, shock cementing him in place and temporarily rendering him silent.

"Um, Dean, why do you have a towel on your head?" his father inquired. There was an unspoken comment inside his tone that suggested his father thought that what Dean was doing was extremely odd. This tore Dean from his stunned state and his voice returned full force.

"We gotta get out! Sam! Dad! What they hell are you just standing there for?"

"Dean, what are you talking about?"

"What are you blind? The building is on fire Sam. We gotta go!"

"The building's not on fire."

"How could you not notice those big ass flames!" Dean yelled back, gesturing to the bedroom. When neither of the two reacted Dean went to them. He clapped his left hand on to the sleeve of his father's shirt and the right gathered a piece of the front of his brother's shirt and he began to literally tow them towards the door.

"Dean! There's no fire!" Sam called out to Dean, trying to pry Dean's fist from his shirt. The attempt became a wrestling match between both of Sam's hands and Dean's determination. Battling the sheer force of his brother's will was futile and Sam had to nearly jog to keep pace as he was dragged to the door. Dean released his hold on the fabric of John's shirt long enough to open the door. John took the opportunity and latched both hand's onto Dean's left upper arm, spinning his son around to face him.

"Dean, there's no fire here. Whatever you're seeing it's not real," he pleaded with his eldest son. It distracted Dean long enough for Sam to free himself from the vice grip his brother's had on his t-shirt.

"Dad, there's no time to argue about this. We have to get out here. This place is burning to the ground."

"It's not Dean. Like Dad said, whatever it is you're seeing it's not real. It's not really here," Sam offered, but Dean couldn't believe they couldn't see the flames consuming the room and feel the heat eating away the air around them. Sam's words had no effect on him and Dean's only response was to recapture Sam's shirt inside his fist.

"We're going!" he yelled out roughly and went to clamp back on to his father seeing that John hadn't moved forward towards the doorway. John dodged the attempt and surrendered in words instead.

"Alright. Alright. We'll go with you Dean. Right Sam?"

"Sure. Let's all go outside," Sam responded, tossing a half dazed half concerned look his father's way. John threw one back that stated this was an unexpected development, a concerning one, but they would work it out.

Dean stepped out onto the porch hurriedly and stepped aside, stopping there until both Sam and his father were clear of the doorway and on their way down the stairs. Only then did he trail after them at a jog until they were all standing at the passenger side of the Impala.

"Okay, what the hell was all that about?" John spat out.

"You're telling me you really can't see that?" Dean asked, disbelief saturating his tone of voice, and gestured a hand back towards the house they had just exited. The flames had raced through the bedroom and were now steadily working their way though the living room.

"There's no fire." His father's words injured Dean. He'd protected both him and Sam and there was no gratefulness, no agreement even on the existence of the danger.

"There's not, Dean. It's not real. What you're seeing. It's not really there. But we'll figure it out, okay?" John offered in a gentler voice.

"Dean? Dean?"

Dean's mind faintly registered his father's voice calling his name, but a lump had settled in his throat. The stubborn barrier prevented him from uttering a response.

"What's going on Dean? What's wrong?" Sam's voice seeped through so quietly that Dean could just barely capture the words. Then in the next excruciatingly loud heartbeat he could only grasp that Sam's voice was still present in a distance. It trickled to him as foggy mumbles and only familiarity identified that it was his brother speaking.

The fire consuming the building before him was abruptly dimmer in its intensity. Sam's voice disappeared completely and Dean shifted his gaze from the flames to his brother. Sam was there stationed in front of him, his lips moving in speech, but the sound was absent. Sam eyes were frantic with a rapidly expanding fear. Dean's heart plummeted and he wanted intensely to connect with him and squelch away the concern he witnessed. But a thick film clouded the space between Dean's mind and his muscles. The words he wanted to speak went uncreated and Dean realized not only was he disconnected from his brother and father verbally but that his entire body was numb of any sensation whatsoever.

Then everything began to slip away from him, pushed back far off onto a distant horizon. Far from his reach and nearly out of sight, his brother and father stared at him silently and all he could manage was to stare back. Strangely Dean found himself without panic although a sliver of his mind thought there should be some. He simply remained still as his eyelids fluttered a handful of times. Then the scene of his brother, father, and the burning house dimmed further and further away, impossibly out of his grasp, and darkness filled in where they once stood. Once the blackness sealed around him he knew he was in motion downward, somehow sensing he was falling but unable to feel it or fight it.

_To Be Continued…_


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Hunter's Crossing

Author: Signs Of Sun

Note: I know I disappeared for a while. Long, but good story. I won't torture you with the details. On with this story instead.

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_Hunter's Crossing_

_Chapter 8_

Dean's head clunked harshly into the metal of the Impala's passenger side door only a heartbeat before Sam reached him. Dean's face had flushed intensely then in the next instant he had become pale and unsteady on his feet.

John and Sam had called out to him several times without reaction before it had been clear that Dean wouldn't be remaining on his feet for too much longer. Both had lunged forward in a failed attempt to catch him on the way down.

"Dean? Dean?" Sam asked, insistently, and kneeled in the dirt beside the spot where his brother was slumped back against the car. But he wasn't rewarded with even the slightest form of a response. John squatted down on the opposite side of Dean and made his own attempt.

"Dean? Dean! Can you hear me?" he inquired. When still no response came John lightly patted Dean on the cheek a handful of times, repeating the words with deeper command. After a few seconds though he stopped, paused in the attempt to rouse his son, and placed the back of his hand on first Dean's cheek and then forehead.

"He's running a fever," he commented, glancing over to Sam.

"Let's get him up into the house," he continued and stood up.

"Lean him forward a little," John instructed. Sam obeyed and pulled Dean forward away from the car door by holding onto his arms. His head lolled forward and Sam moved in closer so his brother's forehead was supported by his right shoulder. John positioned himself behind Dean and placed his grasp under Dean's arms. Sam leaned the limp body propped up against him back into his father's body.

"I can carry him," Sam offered, suggesting hauling his brother on his shoulder.

"It's better we do it this way. We don't want to damage the burns any more."

"Right. Right," Sam replied and placed one hand under each of Dean's knees and stood slowly. On a silent count of three they lifted Dean's body off the ground and made their way from the driveway then slowly navigated the stairs. In the confusion the front door had been left standing wide open and they easily entered back into the house and into Dean's bedroom. A small grunt from both men accompanied Sam and John completing the delivery of Dean's limp body onto the bed.

"What the hell just happening? What was that? What is wrong with him?" Sam threw out inside a rapidly fired string of words aimed at his father.

"Alright Sammy. Alright. We need to take a breath and focus here for a minute."

"Focus, Dad? He thought the house was on fire. He believed it so much he literally dragged us out of here! Or do you not remember that part?"

"I remember it. Trust me. But right now we need to not panic. And panicking is exactly what you're doing."

Sam hung his head, resisting the crushing urge to lay into his father. Underneath the anger resided bewilderment, disbelief in how the man remained calm, almost calculating, in situations like these. Most days he excused it as the military trained man his father was, but at moments like this one, when it was his own child at risk, Sam just couldn't swallow that reasoning.

"How in the hell can you be so damn calm?" Sam asked in a soft voice. He diverted his gaze from his father to the still form of his brother.

"Because I don't have a choice! Panic is distraction. And distraction leads to mistakes. And where you and your brother are concerned there can't be mistakes. Understood?"

"Yeah. Yeah," Sam simply conceded and looked back up. His father's eyes held the spark of something, something less detached and composed. If Sam hadn't known better he might have suspected it was worry, but more likely he had misread it. It had probably just been sparks of annoyance.

"Look, Sammy, I know you're worried about your brother. But rushing through figuring this out isn't going to help him."

"I know. It just sc…surprised me is all. I was so wrapped up in unraveling that vision, trying to figure out how to stop it from happening. I guess I kind of freaked out when I saw Dean headed for that grill and then now when he said the house was fire."

"There's an answer Sammy. I don't know what it is yet, but I'll find it."

"We'll find it. We have to."

"We will son. I guarantee it. Hell or high water that vision of yours is not coming to be."

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The darkness was accompanied by a faint familiar hum for Dean. Truly it wasn't even darkness, it was nothingness. He shifted his weight, testing what was underneath his feet. The movement brought the groan of weathered wood. There was a floor below him. Sensing he was standing Dean hung his head and blinked his eyes a few times over then squinted, but where there should have been an image of a wood floor there remained only a visual void.

"What the hell?" he muttered, rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips. When that received the same results he turned slowly in a circle, a tad seasick on his own feet. His eyes sought out any trace of an object, image, or hint of light. They found none.

Only one sound existed, a warm murmuring. Akin to water flowing over the rocks in a stream it was constant and naturally reassuring. Listening intently for a moment he determined it was originating for above his head. Dean tilted his head back, searching. Again visually nothing came to him, but acoustically the low hum existed in all directions above him, haloing his location. He lowered his blind eyes out in front of him. Suddenly his stomach churned roughly. What else existed here that he couldn't see? He loathed the visual nothingness. His vulnerability sunk through to his core, pumping a rush of icy blood along inside his veins.

"Okay. Okay. Focus. Just focus. Don't panic. Panic leads to mistakes," he whispered, commanding himself to fall in line. Sight wasn't everything. Damn helpful, but not everything. He had other skills. Dean was motionless for a few long deep breaths, trying to sense his surroundings. There was space around him, but it wasn't entirely wide open. The place he was in was faintly drafty, the delicate breeze just skimming over his bare arms and the skin of his cheeks. His was the lone presence and with the exception of not being able to see he was physically healthy.

Putting his hands out in front of him Dean took a small step forward, praying that the wood floor would meet the bottom of his boot. He had no way to tell whether or not the floor was fully intact or if there was a step up or down. It was either risk it or stand indefinitely in the same spot, unseeing and vulnerable. Striking out into the unknown was a decision he had not hesitated about. His entire life had been venturing out into the unknown, seeking out what was born out of shadows and darkness. Hesitancy was a luxury a hunter could not afford.

After a handful of careful steps forward along the wood floor Dean had found a rhythm. His right hand poised out in front of his chest would prevent him from plowing face first into anything. His left hand had gravitated to being outstretched to his side, searching for something solid to guide him. Each step started with just the ball of his foot testing for the existence of wood underneath him, the majority of his weight still on his opposite foot ready to counteract if the floor was suddenly gone. A beat later, once the tip of his foot had met with solidity, the heel of his boot would land and he'd repeat the process.

"I must look like a damn idiot," he griped. But necessity wasn't always pretty so he continued on. The progress was slow, but Dean noticed that the murmuring that trickled over the air above him was still there, steady and soothingly clement. Suddenly the palm of his right hand met with something solid. Dean stopped and using both hands felt to identify the object which turned out to be a wall. Directionally he chose to skim his fingers over the surface going left. A few feet and the waning of his patience later his fingertips departed the wall into open air. Feeling around with his arms fully outstretched before him his right elbow bumped something cold and solid. Finally locating the object with his right hand he grasped on to it. Touch told him it was a doorknob.

Dean exhaled heavily. At this rate putting the puzzle together could take an eternity. A chilling thought occurred to him. Maybe this was some warped version of hell, endless searching in the darkness blind and alone. That would certainly qualify as a kind of hell, at least in his book. If he was going to hell he really preferred not to do it alone.

"Get it together Winchester," he instructed aloud.

"Now is not the time to crack up."

With that he stepped over the threshold of the doorway and managed to locate the wall beyond it. He had only taken one step when his shin rammed into something. Feeling out in front of him he found a rocking chair. He proceeded around it and then managed to maneuver around several other pieces of furniture. Just beyond a window sill his hands met with another solid object. This time it took several passes over the item to determine what it was, but discovered it was a bassinet. Between the rocking chair, small dresser, and the baby bassinet one small puzzle was solved. The room was a nursery.

Dean turned slightly to the left and was about to journey on when an intense sensation washed through him. He froze in place, one hand on the side of the bassinet and the other outstretched protectively in front of his chest. He inhaled gently and held it, listening and sensing. Dean could feel it in his gut, suddenly he was no longer alone.

The presence was unmoving just over his left shoulder. He was barely beginning to twist his body around to face it when the murmuring above him intensified and Dean felt himself tugged upward toward it. It's pull was so powerful to him that he was easily engulfed by it.

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"Did you remember anything else from the vision? Any details you haven't told me about?"

"No, Dad. There wasn't anything else. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. If that's everything then that's what we work with. "

"I just…" Sam began to reply quietly, but the thought he was going to verbalize was ended by the groan that came from his brother. John sat down on the bed and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Dean? You with us?"

"Can't a guy get a little sleep around here? Damn near impossible with you two yapping away right above me," Dean mumbled in reply. Sam couldn't help the smile that lit his face.

"That was just our way of annoying you back into consciousness," John teased, a faint smile escaping to his face too.

"Gee thanks. Back into consciousness?" Dean inquired and finally peeked his eyes open. His gaze landed upon his dad, seating next to him on the edge of the bed then drifted up to his brother when he spoke.

"You were out cold, man. Ran around here yelling the place was on fire. Practically dragged me and Dad out of here. We get outside and you hit the dirt."

"Sounds like a helluva time!" Dean responded quietly.

"You don't remember?" Sam questioned almost disappointedly.

"The fire part is a little fuzzy, but what happened just now, phew, damn clear as a bell."

"Dean, what do you mean what happened just now? You've been lying here on the bed, unconscious, for the last few minutes."

"Oh this is just great," Dean muttered, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

"What?"

"I was in this building, house I guess. I couldn't see anything. First, in a hallway I think then in a nursery. Then…"

"You're sure about this?" John asked. All traces of the slight smile his features had held before had vanished.

"One hundred percent." A silence followed Dean's reply. Sam looked down and studied the floor and John shifted his gaze off towards the window.

"I wasn't here. Least not all of me." Dean commented, breaking the tortuous silence.

"You weren't quite all here There's an understatement," Sam commented under his breath without looking up.

"Laugh it up vision boy."

"Enough! Can we stay focused here? Please. Dean, are you sure you weren't dreaming? Or hallucinating?" John jumped in with. His attention drifting away from his sons for a moment had been focus, concentration, not inattentiveness.

"No. I wasn't. It was real. And I wasn't alone."

"What'd ya mean you weren't alone?" John demanded.

"At first I was by myself, but after a while I felt, sensed, someone arrive. There was definitely another presence there with me."

"Good or evil?" Sam asked. His gaze was now straight at his brother, pleading for the right answer.

"It was right before I woke up. I didn't even have time to tell."

"No read whatsoever?" Sam inquired.

"Could be masking," John suggested.

"Masking?" Sam replied.

"Some entities, spirits, can mask their presence so it's hard to read," John responded and rose from the bed. He began to wander the confines of the room, the gears in his mind keeping pace with his footfalls.

"So that you can't tell they're evil?" his youngest suggested and let his weary body sit down, settling near the end of the bed.

"It's not only evil entities that have the ability. Some good spirits possess it too," John said, stopping by the window.

"Kind of like being unidentifiable to radar?"

"Precisely."

"But it's more likely to be evil. Why would a good spirit want to mask their presence?" Sam questioned.

"From evil," Dean piped in quietly. His eyelids had slid closed again, pulled their by their immense weight, but he had been tuned into the conversation.

"Right. If an evil spirit can't tell whether something is good or evil it doesn't know what it's up against and, therefore, the best way to react," their father continued with the explanation.

"So it could be either."

"You got it."

"That's just great."

"So if we assume it's evil we have a shot at destroying it. But if we assume it's evil and it's not we could inadvertently destroy something good," Sam replied. Frustration was evident in his voice. He took a breath before continuing the thought.

"And if it is evil and we don't destroy it…"

"We're screwed," Dean announced.

"Bingo!" John said, confirming the sentiment and looking away from his sons and off at nothing in particular.

"We have another problem," Sam announced, this time chasing the words with a heavy sigh.

"What?" John prompted for more details.

"Dean is the only one who has had any contact with it and that was in his head. How are we supposed to fight something we can't even interact with?"

"I don't know yet. We don't even know if it's something that needs fighting. But we'll figure it out Sam," John replied in a mixture of gentleness and determination. Scarcely a heartbeat later he had departed the bedroom. It was only then that the sound of the doorbell penetrated the brothers' thoughts. Their father had apparently heard it though and gone to answer.

"You guys can't fight it. But I can. And if it's evil it's going down one way or another," Dean told Sam, meeting his brother's eyes solidly.

"You have no idea how much I hope you're right."

"I am Sammy. No doubt about it."

888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

John peeked out through the crack between the drapes that hung over the living room windows. A short stocky man probably in his late fifties stood on the porch, his hands were stuffed into his jacket pockets and his eyes directed a eager stare at the closed door.

"What now?" John mumbled and moved to the doorway. He took in a deep breath and opened the door.

"Can I help you?" he stated, sounding disgustingly polite and normal. It was a sure sign he'd been doing this too long, pretending and conning people in the name of his quest.

"Good evenin'. Name's Renmore. Most people just call me Rennie though."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Renmore?" John asked, desperately trying to bury his irritation. He hated small talk almost as much as he hated demons.

"I'm the caretaker for the owner. Saw the lights on. Wasn't aware Mr. Bryant had leant out the place this week."

"I know Chris from New York. I have a running arrangement with him to borrow the place when it's empty."

"Then you wouldn't mind if I check on that?" the man asked, his tone a little too thick with suspicion for John's liking.

"No problem. Come on in." The man hesitated a second, giving John the once over, before walking inside. John laughed silently to himself. The man, this Mr. Renmore, had just sized him up and decided he wasn't a threat. John found himself suddenly assumed by what people thought they knew. While Mr. Renmore pulled his cell from his shirt pocket John closed the door. As the man was punching keys on the phone John made eye contact with Sam who had peered around the doorframe of the bedroom. The silent communication was short, Sam letting his father know they were aware of the arrival of someone who shouldn't hear too much and John reassuring his younger son that he had the situation under control and to return to his brother.

"Yeah. Mr. Bryant. It's Peter Renmore. Sorry to disturb you, but…" the caretaker started, but seemed to have been cut off by the person on the other end of the phone. John got the impression somehow that the man standing before him was a bit of a talker. If John recalled right Chris Bryant hadn't had much time to talk and had generally gotten right to the point, a trait John had thoroughly appreciated. He ran a hand over his beard and then his weary eyes, recalling that talkers were always the hardest to get back out the door once they got inside.

"That's correct. There's a Mr….."

"Lawrence. Eric Lawrence," John responded, grateful he had managed to recall the false identity he had used amongst the hundreds of others.

"A Mr. Eric Lawrence here at the house. He says you two have an arrangement for him to stay here." The man listened intently for a moment while eyeing John who stood just inside the doorway.

"Alright. Thank you sir!" he finally stated and closed the phone.

"I do apologize for that, but it is my job."

"Perfectly understandable!" John remarked, hopeful this would be wrapped up sooner than he had expected.

"I should be going," Rennie said and tossed John a friendly smile. Before moving toward the door he stuffed the phone back in his pocket. Happening to glance down as he did so he spotted the photocopies John had made at the library that morning.

"Tymson. He owned the house near Greenwood, right? Looking to buy the property or something? Somebody needs to knock down that old eye sore."

"Uh, no, no. I'm just kind of a history buff. Wherever I happen to be traveling, wherever my work takes me, I'm always real drawn to catching up on local history."

"You a historian? Teacher or something?"

"You might say that," John replied.

"There's a small community college up the road a piece on Route 7. I have a friend works up there. They keep a lot of records on the history of this area."

"I hate to be rude Mr. Renmore…"

"Rennie. Please call me Rennie."

"Rennie….I hate to seem impolite, but one of my sons is sick and I'd like to get back to him."

"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry. I wasn't aware."

"Not a problem. Mr. Ren...Rennie," John offered in a pleasant voice, ushering the other man to the doorway.

"One more suggestion on the history thing before I get out of your hair."

"What's that?" John asked, pushing hard to sound interested.

"I don't know a lot about it, but my Dad used to talk about it sometimes when I was a kid."

"Let me guess a local legend?"

"Might call it that. The fire of 1934," Renmore offered and opened the door to leave.

"Sounds intriguing. You said you don't remember a lot about the story?"

"No. I was not into history much back then when I was a kid. My dad was, big history buff. But like I said go down to the community college tomorrow and talk to Professor Manning. If anyone will know it's him. Well, I should be going and let you get to tendin' to your son."

"Right. Right. Good night Mr. Renmore."

"Need anything. Don't hesitate to call. Number's on speed dial on the phone. Have a good night," the older man said quietly then made his way through the door and out into the night. Once John had closed the door and turned back around he found Sam standing by the couch, a mixture of exhaustion, frustration, and worry painting his expression.

"How's Dean?" John asked.

"He's asleep." To this John only nodded that he had heard. He crossed the living room and perched himself on the arm of the sofa.

"Do you think whatever that was Dean sensed will make another appearance?" Sam prompted in a hushed voice.

"Hard to say. But we should prepare ourselves just in case."

"Always prepare for the worst case scenario. Right. What's the plan?"

"Dig into the research we got at the library. Go online. Whatever you have to do, do it. This guy Renmore, he's the caretaker of the place. He mentioned something I need you to research. Look up the fire of 1934. I've got some contacts I've gotta call."

"I'm on it!" Sam responded, heading towards the laptop. He scooped it up, along with the papers that had been spread across the coffee table, and carried them into Dean's room. As he set the materials on the small table under the window the murmur of his father's voice from the living room floated to his ears. His tone was taunt, all business. Sam searched his memory. He came up empty handed for the last time his father's voice had not sounded that way for any length of time longer than five minutes. That hard truth grated on Sam. Wasn't there supposed to be light on the other side of a quest? Wasn't there supposed to be battles won inside the war that brighten the way a little? John Winchester had spent twenty two years on a mission. Two decades of fighting. Thousands of days riddled with darkness and decay. Somewhere along the way it seemed he had been sucked into a black hole. Trapped inside something so massive and with such intense pull that there was no escape, not even for the tiniest shred of light. Their father was journeying to the center of something so powerful he had been doomed long ago to one day be torn apart by it.

The bone deep exhaustion told Sam the arrival of a little light was overdue for all of them. And his heart clenched at the knowledge that it might never come, that only blackness may pave their journey. Sam's vision had thrown at him the images that evidenced that it could quite possibly be a journey traveled without Dean at his side. Sam seriously doubted he would be able to manage it without his brother, at least not manage it with his sanity intact.

"Okay. Alright. There's gotta be something," he whispered, running a shaky hand through his hair then opening up the laptop. Too tired to come up with his own direction he latched onto his father's, searching the internet for information on the fire of 1934. After only a few moments of reading Sam was staring, nearly entranced, at the computer screen. The next item he found was a copy of the text from an old newspaper article. _The Montpelier Evening Edition _was no longer being published, but some journalism history lover had thrown up a website archiving the articles it had run.

"Uh Dad. I think you need to come in here!" Sam called out, immediately regretting the volume of his voice. He glanced towards the bed, but Dean had not moved at all.

"What is it?" his father asked, rushing in with the phone still in his hand, glancing first to the bed where his son lie fast asleep and then to Sam seated by the window.

"You need to look at this!" Sam replied, turning the laptop at an angle so his father could read the screen John stared at the words of the headline laid out before his eyes in big black bold font.

_**November 22, 1934. **_

**_Mysterious Fire Destroys Entire Town. _**

**_Dozens Dead. Few Survivors. _**

_To Be Continued…_


End file.
